


Sanditon: A Collateral Damage

by MissToni



Category: Sanditon (TV 2019), Sanditon - Jane Austen
Genre: Also something like a detective story, Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Befuddled, F/M, Happy Ending, Reality Gone Wrong, Theolotta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 10:35:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 40,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24469603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissToni/pseuds/MissToni
Summary: Lotta is kind, curious, and courageous – and excited about the prospect of her new life in busy London. When she witnesses a man being kidnapped in the backyard of a theatre, she has to rush in – only to find herself propelled into a reality that is a lot stranger than any fiction…This is a bit of a different approach to Sanditon, but I'm sure you'll recognise certain people. The happy ending is guaranteed, though in this case, it's a very, very bumpy road to perfect happiness.
Relationships: Charlotte Heywood/Sidney Parker
Comments: 119
Kudos: 204





	1. Reality Gone Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> I had made a promise to myself never to dabble in fanfiction again. And then I had so much more spare time to fill than ever expected, and one of the obvious things to do was to watch Sanditon for the one hundred millionth time. At some stage, I thought: "What if..." - and since I had all that spare time to fill, I pursued the thought, and here we are. 
> 
> For this story, I have stolen lines from Jane Austen, Andrew Davies, and Kate Riordan. Apart from the obvious sources, my research was limited to
> 
> following some posts in the Sanditon Facebook group,  
> reading one Wikipedia article,  
> and a very, very quick visit to Tumblr. 
> 
> I would also like to point out that this is a work of fiction and that the characters portrayed bear, of course, no resemblance at all to anyone alive or dead, even though they might share some names. My apologies if anyone feels offended. I blame it all on having to stay at home. Without it, none of this would have happened.

_My characters shall have, after a little trouble, all that they desire._ (Jane Austen)

_**Monday, 2 nd March** _

It was not as if her father had not warned her. 

The evening before her departure, he took her on their favourite walk among the wintery fields surrounding the village. He reminded her that London was a city of eight million people where no one quite knew who anyone else was, where they came from, and what they were up to. 

"I'm twenty-seven, Papa," she said with a fond smile, knowing that for her father, she would forever remain a chubby six-year-old crying over the loss of Pinky the toy rabbit. "I have a bachelor's degree in German literature, and I've lived in big cities before. I'm sure I can manage." She loved her family and her home dearly, but she suffered from the restrictions of a countryside community where the eight-kilometre-trip to the next town was considered a day's journey. The internship at the London office of SandY was her free ride ticket into a bright future, and if one was perfectly honest: it was also her very last escape route.

"But England," her father said with a sigh. "London. Just be careful." 

"Careful of what, Papa?"

"Everything."

Yet whatever _everything_ meant, nothing her father had said could have prepared Lotta for the sight of two masked figures knocking out a man in a backyard of St. Martin's Lane and shoving his unconscious body like a parcel into a white delivery van that blocked the entrance. "Oi!" she cried, dropping the lunch bag she had been carrying and running into the yard. "What are you…" she started to shout, only now realising that this was perhaps not the best course of action. Something hit her on the head. _Just be careful_ , she heard her father say before the lights went out.

*

There was a drum in her head, a drum that made her slowly drift back into consciousness. Surely it was one of her teenage brothers, experimenting with metal music and his sister's patience at the same time. "Just turn down the volume, will you?" she mumbled.

"I would if I could," a deep male voice said. Lotta sat up, bumping her head against something substantial and realising that she was blindfolded.

"Ouch," the male voice said. "You're quite headstrong."

"Who _are_ you?" she asked, trying to remove the blindfold, only to find that her hands and feet were tied together as well.

"Who are _you_?" the male voice asked in return.

 _Just be careful,_ she heard her father say, and then she remembered: The walk down St Martin's Lane during her lunch break, the masked figures in the backyard, the unconscious man shoved into a delivery van. Herself, dropping the lunch bag and running towards the… kidnappers. For that was what was happening when one was knocked out, blindfolded and tied up: One was being kidnapped. Or worse. She moved away from the male voice and bumped against something else, something cold and metallic. The wall of the delivery van. She was inside the delivery van now, and the drum she heard in her head was no drum, but the steady noise of the wheels. There was a certain probability that the deep male voice belonged to the man she had seen being knocked out in the backyard. 

"What is going on here?" she asked.

"I was hoping you could tell me," the man said. "I'm blindfolded and tied up."

"So am I."

"Alright. Tell me this is a prank. A bloody, stupid, not-at-all-funny prank." He did not sound terrified at all but angry and annoyed. Had she heard that voice before? Unlikely.

"To be honest, I don't think this is a prank," she said with a sinking feeling "Or if it is a prank, I wouldn't know why I'm in it."

"Are you a fangirl?" A fangirl? Of whom? Goethe was dead, and so were Schiller and Heine. And apart from that, she was twenty-seven, not seventeen.

"I'm an intern at SandY," she said. 

"What's that? A casting company?"

"Sanderson and Young. They are architects. Well renowned architects if you must know." This was weird. Very weird. Shouldn't they be discussing escape plans instead of architects and casting companies?

"This doesn't make sense," the man muttered to himself, then added: "What was your name again?"

"Lotta."

"You're not English," he said instead of offering his own name.

"I'm not. I'm German."

"Why are you here?"

"I'm on an internship at SandY. I told you."

"That's not what I mean." He was clearly annoyed again. "Why are you here? With me?"

"I suppose because during my lunch break, I was unfortunate enough to walk past the yard in which _you_ were being knocked out and kidnapped."

"Oh. So you're a collateral damage?"

"I probably am," Lotta said, adding the obvious question: "And who are you?"

"Theo."

"Right." She decided that a "Nice to meet you" was not necessary, given the circumstances. The van was still moving, rattling them through whenever the road was a getting rougher. She felt dizzy behind the blindfold, and with the cable ties that bound her wrists cutting into the skin, her hands were going numb. It was a most uncomfortable situation, and that grumpy Theo-person by her side did not help to improve it.

"So if this is not about me, I assume it's about you," she observed.

"What do you mean?"

"You were first. You were knocked out and shoved into the van. I'm just the collateral damage, as you said. So if they were not after me, they were after you, and I would love to know why."

"Why would you want to know?" He seemed to be annoyed again, but also on the alert. 

"Because if we know the why, it might help us assess the situation."

"You've watched too many bad crime movies, Laura."

" _Lotta_. And I haven't. But I would like to know what happens once this car stops and the doors open."

"We'll find out," he said somewhat stoically. 

"Only it might be too late then."

"I don't think they are going to kill us."

"They are not going to kill you, because you are what they came for. But they might want to get rid of the collateral damage."

"I doubt it. Too much work, cleaning up the mess, hiding the body and such." His indifference sparked an anger in her she had not known she possessed. 

"You brute!" she cried, trying to move towards him and hit him with her tied hands – just when the van turned a corner at high speed which propelled her towards him anyway. She landed on top of him, her forehead crushing his nose.

"Ouch! You broke my nose!"

"I'm sure you deserve it," she murmured, crawling away from him. Of all the people in the world, he was certainly the most disagreeable one to be kidnapped with. But he was also, she had to admit to herself, the best-smelling one. She tried and failed to imagine what he looked like.

"It's bleeding!"

"Yeah. Well. I assume you have a pretty face that is ruined now forever, and you're going to sue me when this is over."

"No, I'm going to sue these idiots who are doing this to us." He banged his feet against the wall of the van in frustration. But he did not deny the part about the pretty face, Lotta noticed.

"So you know who they are?" she asked.

"I have not the slightest idea."

"Is there anyone holding a grudge against you? – Or…" There was another possibility, of course. "Are you super-rich?"

"No, I'm not super-rich, and yes, I may have alienated some people in the past, but none of that would justify this."

"Maybe they are confusing you with someone rich and famous."

"Could you just stop talking for a while?" That annoyed voice again.

"I know I'm inclined to talk too much, but… but I think right now it's largely down to nervousness." And shock. The moment she said it, she understood. This was actually happening. This was not some weird dream, or a prank that had backfired, this was reality gone wrong. She was in the boot of a delivery van, tied up, in the power of some gangsters and the company of this sullen Theo-person who smelled great and had a voice that sent shivers down her spine, even when what he said was hurtful and offensive. She had not the slightest idea of what was going on and how this was going to end. For the first time in her life, she wished she had listened to her father and stayed at home in her cosy little village.


	2. Mr Parker

The ride in the back of the van seemed to go on forever. Or maybe it was just the silence between them that stretched it. Lotta wasn’t sure. All she knew was that even though they were in this together, she felt very much alone – and that her life was in more danger than that of her surly companion.

“Why were you there?” he suddenly asked.

“What?”

“Why were you there? In the yard?”

“I was on my lunch break. Actually, it was my first lunch break on my first day at SandY…” (good Lord, what would they be thinking of her? That she had run away after just four hours in the office?) “… and I’d bought coffee and a sandwich at Pret à manger… and a carrot cake…” (And it had felt so good, as if she was a real London City girl, walking around purposefully in uncomfortable high heels and a skirt suit, her hair pinned up, carrying her little paper lunch bag) “… and I was just looking at everything. I like… I like details. Detecting things others would overlook.”

“I see,” he said. Nothing else.

“Why were you there?” she asked after a while.

“Work.”

“Ah.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-seven.”

“Didn’t you say you were an intern?”

“I am.”

“You’re definitely the eldest intern I’ve ever heard of.”

“Yeah, well, then that’s at least something you’ve learned today.” Why were they talking about her all the time? She was nothing but collateral damage. He had to be the one with an interesting story.

“So you’re studying architecture?” he asked.

“No, I’m… well, look, it’s complicated, and I don’t want to talk about it.” At least not here, in the back of a van, with her hands going slowly numb and the blindfold making her head spin. “What about you? What _work_ did you do in the back yard?”

“I didn’t do any work in there; I was basically finishing for the day.”

“I see.” Part-timer. Or a manual workman, doing some repairs in the yard. No. She knew enough of the English language to understand that his voice had a polished accent. Not a posh accent, but a polished accent that betrayed at least a solid university training. And even though she had felt his muscles when she landed on him earlier, she simply could not see him as the odd-job man wielding a hammer and a drilling machine. “And what is _work_ in your case?”

“None of your business.”

Eight million people, Lotta thought. Eight million people in this bloody city, half of them men, and I am landed here with the most disagreeable one of them all.

“Forgive me for asking, Mr Bond,” she said. “I didn’t realise I’d stumbled across MI5’s new headquarters.” To her surprise, this made him laugh.

“Bond’s section would be MI6. And no, it’s not the secret service, but… oh. Have you noticed?” In fact, she had: The van had stopped, the front doors were being slammed open, and in a matter of seconds, the back door was opened as well.

“Out,” a female voice said. A rough hand released her from the cables around her ankles, but did not bother to take off her blindfold, so Lotta scrambled out of the van, bumping into her companion again, trying to ignore the unpleasant sounds of her tights ripping apart and the seam of her skirt tearing up. Once outside and standing on her feet, she stumbled again, from cold and exhaustion and because her legs were all wobbly. “Move!” the female voice ordered. This was worse than a military drill, Lotta thought – not that she had ever attended a military drill.

“How can I move if I don’t see a thing?” she asked.

“Shut up!”

“Yes, please,” she heard her Theo-companion whisper. “For both our sakes, shut up!” It only made her stomp her foot.

“I ask you to release me at once! I’m a German citizen! I think this will lead to a major diplomatic crisis!”

“You are not going to impress,” her companion said. “We’ve been living in a diplomatic crisis since the day of the Brexit vote.”

“Shut up!” the female voice shouted again, now clearly directed at Theo. “And you, _Fräulein_ , better stop talking and thinking altogether.”

“You should really work on your German accent. And no one says _Fräulein_ these days.”

“Well, you’ll have plenty of time for working on your English accent. Move!” Lotta was pushed forward (gravel, she noticed), upstairs (stone stairs, probably leading up to a grand entrance), inside (marble? Was that a marble floor?), upstairs again (carpet. Worn out carpet), inside a room and down on the floor (wood).

“We’ll take off the blindfolds now,” the female voice said. “If you move, you’re dead.”

“For once, stay still,” Theo hissed at Lotta.

“That applies to you as well, Mr Parker,” the voice said.

“What? I’m not…”

“Shut up, or you’re a dead man.”

He did shut up. _Theo Parker_ , Lotta thought. Well, at least something to google for. Though she had nothing to google with. Her jacket was gone and with it her phone. Someone hovered above her, fumbling around her head. She felt the blindfold come lose and closed her eyes, expecting the shock of the light.

“Right, rules,” the female voice said. Lotta blinked. There was not much to see. The female, surprisingly petite, dressed in black and wearing a motorcycle mask, and behind her, a rather tall male figure, equally dressed in black and pointing a gun at them. A real one, by the looks of it. With her father being a hunter, Lotta knew a thing or two about weapons. She dared not move her head to the right where Theo Parker was kneeling next to her on the bare wooden floor.

“Rules,” the Woman repeated. “You’ll be under surveillance twenty-four hours a day.” The tall guy with the gun pointed at a camera installed in the corner of the high ceiling. “During the night, you’ll be handcuffed to the bed.” The bed was a massive ancient affair with a huge metal frame. The whole room breathed the atmosphere of a time gone by, with its worn-out floor planks and light rectangular spots on the wall where once pictures would have hung. As to the furniture, there was none, apart from the bed and an ancient-looking wing chair. The outside shutters were closed, and the windows boarded up tightly from the inside as well. “The bathroom’s over there, but the plumbing is from the beginning of the previous century, so don’t expect much. - If you do not mess with us, we will not mess with you. – Understood?”

“Yes,” Theo said, seemingly resigned.

“No,” Lotta said. “Why are we here?”

“Ask him.” The Woman nodded at Theo, and Lotta followed her gaze, opened her mouth to repeat the question and then forgot everything she wanted to say. Yes, he was grumpy, disagreeable, unpleasant, closed up like an oyster and most unhelpful when one was tied up and blindfolded in the back of a delivery van. Still, he was also, without the slightest doubt, the most handsome man she had ever had the good luck to lay her eyes on – even with a battered nose and a torn shirt.

“Breathe,” he suggested.

“Yes,” she whispered. This was a nightmare. As if the situation was not bad enough, she now had the added burden of an elevated heartbeat.

“You never fail to impress, Mr Parker,” the Woman chuckled.

“Listen, I …”

“Shut up! Final rule: you will speak to me only when you’re asked to. Now: we’ll open the handcuffs. You move or try any nonsense: you’re dead. Understood?”

“Yes,” Theo said.

“And you, _Fräulein_?”

“No. I don’t understand why I’m here and what it is you want from me…or from him.” She tried not to look at him. It was ridiculous, but this would have been so much easier if only he had been plain, bald and covered with pimples.

“He knows why he’s here. And you can consider yourself lucky that you’re still alive. He …” – the Woman pointed at the creepy gun-guy – “… was pro strangling you on the spot.”

“Murdering an innocent woman armed with nothing but a lunch bag? You’re the sorriest sort of kidnapper I’ve ever heard of.”

“Stop talking,” Theo hissed. The Woman nodded.

“Listen to him. He’s the sensible one – aren’t you, Mr Parker?” He didn’t deny it, so he probably was. “And it’s your own fault, _Fräulein_. If you had not come running towards us blazing like hellfire, none of this would have happened. Now shut up, and we’ll take off the handcuffs.”

Lotta did shut up, not because she considered the topic finished, but because she wanted to move her hands freely again. And strangle basically everyone who was with her in that room.

Creepy Gun-Guy kept pointing his weapon at them while the Woman opened the handcuffs and then retreated towards the door. They swiftly moved out, with more than one lock clacking and shutting them in. Lotta was at the door almost immediately, banging her fists against the rather solid material. “Oi! Let us out! Let us out! I’m… what’s the English word… clauster… clausto…”

“Claustrophobic,” Theo added. “And you are not. You were perfectly alright in the van.”

She kicked against the door in frustration, only to come away with an aching foot. “What if I was seriously ill? If I needed my medication?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “You heard them. You are collateral damage. They’d not be sorry to see you gone.”

She sank down, her back to the door, all energy and anger gone _. Just be careful_ , she heard her father say. By now, they must be missing her at SandY. What would they be thinking? That she’d run away during her lunch break? Would they call her (whatever had happened to her phone?) and then contact the emergency number she had given to HR this morning? She imagined her eldest brother answering his phone and trying to grasp what Essie, Mr Young’s personal assistant, would be telling him. Once he had made sense of her posh accent, he would reassure her that running away was totally out of his sister’s character and that something must have happened to her. That was what he would say. Hopefully.

She looked up and saw Theo standing at the window, his arm raised against the boards, his forehead touching his lower arm. There was nothing to see, apart from some tiny stretches of light, yet he continued gazing outside.

 _Theo Parker_.

Maybe he was famous. There was something vaguely familiar about him. She had never heard his name before, but that did not mean anything, she usually ignored gossipmongers and Instagramers. Her brothers laughed about her and her complete lack of the most basic knowledge of social-media-stardom. If he was not famous, and they were not holding him for money, it had to be something personal. Disappointed love, most likely, judging by his looks. With that crazy masked woman? No. He seemed not to know who she was. If only this Theo-character were a bit more talkative. But he stood there at the dark window, staring at the wooden planks, turning his back on her. Which at least had the advantage that she did not have to see his pretty face. Though the rest of him was pretty as well, even from behind.

Suddenly, he turned around. “You know something.”

“Sorry?”

“You know something. You know what happened in that back yard.” He slowly came towards her, a dark, concentrated expression on his face, his eyes not losing contact with hers. He is gazing into my soul, Lotta thought, her knees going all wobbly. – No, he is not, she reminded herself. The room was in semi-darkness, the light far too dim for any soul-gazing.

“I told you what happened. I was on my lunch break, I was wandering about, staring at everything like a tourist, I was walking past the back yard, and I saw you being shoved into that van like a parcel by these people. So I dropped the lunch bag and started running towards them.”

“You were not _inside_ the yard? You were walking _past_?”

“Yes.”

“And you started running towards them?”

“Yes.” There was something in his voice that irritated her. It was too calm, too cool.

“You _ran_ towards the people you’d just seen lifting an unconscious man inside a van?”

“Yes.” Well, she had realised it was not the best course of action, but by then it had been too late: They had her knocked out as well.

He was towering above her, two steps from where she was still sitting, leaning against the door. When he spoke again, his voice had grown cold. “And did it ever occur to you to take some sensible action? Like, get your phone out and call the police? Alert the people around you?”

“I – I…”

His lip curled. “This could be over by now if the police had a description and the number plate. Instead, I am a hostage of two psychopaths, and locked away with someone who apparently doesn’t understand the difference between a heroine and a drama queen.”

Lotta thought she might explode with anger. How could he be so unfair, given their situation? “Next time I’ll just walk past,” she said. “I’m not going to let you down again.”

“Let _me_ down?” he said dismissively, raising one eyebrow. “No, you didn’t let me down. I should not have expected anything different from a silly girl whose knowledge of real life is based on social media and television.” With that, he turned on his heel and returned to the planked window, gazing again into an invisible outside world.

Lotta sighed. It was a truth not yet universally acknowledged that while a dark, brooding hero held some appeal when met with in fiction, he was a frustrating personality to deal with in real life. Especially when one was kidnapped together for mysterious reasons. But remaining where she was, and bathing in self-pity was not going to help her cause. She decided to go on a tour of inspection of her new surroundings.

The room seemed to be a former hotel room in what must have been a state home a long time ago. The furniture was gone, apart from the bed and the wing chair, the latter looking worn out but comfortable. The bathroom was a tiny affair built in what would have served as a walk-in-wardrobe in a different century.

Highly suspicious of English plumbing after several devastating experiences during school exchanges and a semester abroad in Portsmouth, Lotta tried the water tap. Running, but ice cold. The showerhead hissed and spluttered like an angry dragon before releasing a drizzle of cold water, but at least the toilet was flushing properly. Her most basic needs would be seen to. Which still left her with her grumpy companion who seemed determined to ignore her – quite a feat considering they were confined to a place measuring sixteen square metres at maximum. He did not even look up when she tried to get his attention by slamming the bathroom door shut behind her. “Right,” she said, ready to embark on a lecture about how they were in this together and therefore had to stand together. Just then the door opened, and Creepy Gun-Guy and the Woman in black appeared, carrying two pizza boxes and a bag.

“Dinnertime,” the Woman announced and threw the boxes at Lotta. “Classic tuna. Sorry, we didn’t check for your dietary needs.”

“I’ll eat anything,” Lotta said, thinking of that lovely avocado sandwich and the yummy carrot cake she had dropped when running into the yard. She had not eaten anything since breakfast. Her co-prisoner turned away from the window, threw a contemptuous look at the pizza but did not say a word.

“Tomorrow you’re in for a treat, Mr Parker,” the Woman said.

“I’m not…”

“Shut up and eat, that’s all you gonna get tonight. - This is for your personal needs,” she added, dropping the bag. “And don’t forget…” she nodded at the camera in the corner of the ceiling. “We are watching you. If you mess with us, we’ll mess with you.” She was gone, taking Creepy Gun-Guy with her. The door was locked again.

“I cannot help myself, but I don’t like her,” Lotta said, inspecting the bag. Towels, two toothbrushes, toothpaste and some liquid soap. So much for personal needs. She turned to the pizza. “It’s tuna or tuna. Or shall we share half and half?”

“I’m not eating that crap.”

“You heard what she said, we are not going to be invited to the dining room.”

“I’ll rather go hungry than fill myself with artificial flavour enhancers, analogue pizza cheese and a fish that better roamed the oceans than the ovens.” If he stayed hungry, his mood was not going to improve. Lotta sighed and decided to go for the half and half option while he sat down in the wing chair, staring gloomily into a non-existent distance.

With one of her basic needs – food – fulfilled, she felt some of her spirit return. Whatever he thought of her, they were in this together, they were allies, even if only by destiny and not as kindred spirits. She shoved the pizza boxes aside, went to the bathroom to clean her face and to tidy up what was left of her skirt suit (not much apart from a torn skirt and a stained blouse). There was no mirror in the bathroom, yet she looked up from the washbasin and told her imaginary reflection: “Courage, Lotta. You can do this.” Closing the bathroom door behind her, she walked over to the wing chair where her unwilling companion still sat brooding, chin in hand, long legs stretched away – and even in his anger still heartbreakingly handsome.

“Theo,” she said, using his name for the first time and feeling a bit awkward about it. “Can we talk?” His expression remained cold and hostile, but she forced herself to continue. Despite his foul temper, he seemed to be an intelligent man, so surely, he would comprehend that they had to stand together? “Our … conversation from before – I… I know I did not take the best course of action back there in the yard.” She swallowed. “In fact, I knew it the moment they knocked me out. I’m quite angry with myself, and I’m sorry. Very, very sorry. I just hope… I hope you won’t think too badly of me.”

He looked up at her, surprised for a second, then full of contempt and anger.

“Think badly of you?” he said. “I don’t think of you at all. I don’t care what you feel or what you do, as long as you don’t put my life into danger with your follies. Sorry if that disappoints you, but there it is. Have I made myself clear?”

For a moment, Lotta expected to burst into humiliating tears. It seemed as if the more she tried to make things right, the more they went wrong. But was that really her fault alone? Not at all. He was the one who would not speak, would not share what he knew, would not see them as a team. She lifted her chin and looked him square in the eye.

“Only if I’m such a failure, I wonder why you don’t take action yourself. Complaining about the food and the company and brooding like some wannabe-version of Mr Rochester is so… boring.” She turned and walked away. Due to the restrictions of the room, she could not walk very far, which somehow spoiled the effect, yet when she had reached the door and turned around again, she caught him staring thoughtfully at her. Suddenly he shook his head and resumed his brooding. They were only interrupted when the door was opened, and the Woman and Creepy Gun-Guy stepped in. “Trouble in paradise?” the Woman asked.

“I seriously doubt that this is paradise,” Lotta said.

“It could be if both of you were a bit more obliging. – You can try again tomorrow. For now, it’s bedtime. You have five minutes each in the bathroom. And it’s ladies first, don’t you think, Mr Parker?”

“I’m not…”

“Oh, shut up. It _is_ ladies first, _Fräulein_.”

Lotta huddled over to the bathroom, glad to find an escape from her companion’s disdainful gaze. Being kidnapped was bad enough. Being kidnapped and locked in with a blend of Mr Rochester, Mr Darcy and Mr Thornton at their very worst (when it came to character) and their very best (when it came to looks) was going to be a trial for her nerves and sanity. She allowed two tears to roll down her cheeks before pulling herself together. She washed her face and finished brushing her teeth just when the Woman started pounding the door. “Beauty time’s over, _Fräulein.”_

“It’s Lotta,” she said, emerging from the bathroom. “And you don’t use _Fräulein_ without an adjective, a name or a possessive pronoun, so if you insist, it’s _Gnädiges Fräulein, Fräulein Lotta_ or _Mein Fräulein_ , though of course all of that will mark you as something left over from before the World War One.” Was that a chuckle coming from the direction of the wing chair? Impossible.

The Woman was not impressed. “Your turn,” she said to Theo, and “Sit down on the bed, _Fräulein_ ,” she added as soon as he had closed the bathroom door behind him. “Show me your hands.” – and when Lotta did, a handcuff closed around her right wrist.

“What …”

“Shut up.” The other part of the handcuff was locked around the metal rail of the bed frame.

“You don’t expect me to sleep like that.”

“I do. Good night and sweet dreams, _Fräulein_.”

“I protest, I really do! I’m a German citizen …”

“You could be Lady Denham herself, and I couldn’t care less.”

“Lady Denham?” Lotta asked, totally confused now. “Who’s that?”

“As if you wouldn’t know. That’s why you were sneaking around there in the first place, wasn’t it?”

“What? I wasn’t sneaking around anywhere!”

“You’ll be grateful for this one day, I can promise you that much.” Before she could elaborate on this, Theo emerged from the bathroom. “Mr Parker. Finished with your beauty care?”

“Once and for all…”

“Shut up and sit down.” – and with a quick movement, his left hand was handcuffed to the metal frame of the bed. He did not protest, apparently opting for a more stoic approach.

The Woman and Creepy Gun-Guy looked down on them as they were cowering on the bed, each of them trying to remain on their side and to stay away from each other as far as possible. The Woman chuckled. “What a sight. I’ll have to take a picture next time. Good night, you two.” – and the light went off, leaving them in darkness while the door was locked from the outside.

Lotta started rattling against the metal at once. “Oi! Let me out! You filthy… dirty… _ihr verblödeten Hackfressen! Lasst mich sofort raus_!“

„Whatever you told them, it’s not going to work,” she heard Theo say to her left.

Lotta decided to ignore him and his rather unhelpful comments. She turned her back on him, placed her head on her handcuffed arm, pulled at the blanket and curled up like an embryo. What a nightmare of a day this was! She would be missed by now, for sure. If not by Essie at SandY, then by Marty and Tamsin, her friendly hosts. If she closed her eyes and believed in it hard enough, she could even see a special unit of the British police force come to her rescue. It was just a matter of trust and time.

“So,” her bedfellow said in the darkness. “Any ideas on the best course of action?”

“As you didn’t approve of my actions before, I will not inconvenience you with them again,” she replied with as much dignity as she could muster.

“But I’m sure you have some ideas. Come on, share them with me.”

“Certainly not. You’ve made your opinion on me very clear, Mr Parker.”

“I’m not …”

“… interested in what I feel or what I do, I know that. But why not try to fulfil at least the most basic demands of courtesy? Good night, Mr Parker.”

She heard him sigh, apparently preparing to give an elaborate answer, then thinking the better of it. “Good night, Lotta,” he simply said, curling up on his side of the bed and pulling a good part of the blanket away from her.


	3. The Man Who Died in Lady Mary's Bed

_**Tuesday, 3 rd March** _

Finding sleep when chained with one hand to the metal rail of a bedframe proved to be a challenge. Finding sleep when chained to a metal rail and sharing a bed and a blanket with a most confounding wannabe-Mr Rochester proved to be impossible.

At least I don’t have to see his handsome face, Lotta said to herself, which was some relief. And when she had to see him again, he would be as tired and worn out as she was, because he could not sleep either. She heard and sensed him toss and turn around next to her, trying to find the best position for his handcuffed arm and pulling at the blanket while not getting too close to her, but he didn’t try to start a conversation again.

They must have fallen asleep at some point because Lotta found herself walking her father’s fields at home, enjoying the refreshing sea breeze that came over from the not too distant Baltic Sea, feeling the sunbeams stroke her face. There was a figure at the end of the path in the shadow of a small copse, a blurred figure, but somehow familiar, waving at her, and she started waving back… she sat up bolt right and wide awake, sending a sharp pain through her chained arm. She knew that dream, and she knew who that figure was. It was not a good dream under normal circumstances. Given the situation, it was the worst possible dream.

She stole a glance to the left, at the bulk of her companion. He finally seemed to be fast asleep, snoring softly. It almost turned him into a human being.

After that, it was impossible to go back to sleep. Lotta tried – and failed – to find a comfortable position for her arm. It was still dark and would remain so until someone came and turned the light on… _if_ someone came and turned the light on… Once again, she tried to figure out who her kidnappers were and why she was here, only to conclude that she had no way to find out unless that Theo-character next to her started opening up. Which, given the present state of their relationship, would never happen. Maybe she had reacted too harshly to his attempt at a more substantial conversation. They had had a bad start, so much was for sure. They were intelligent people though – he too withdrawn, perhaps, and she too naïve – and there had to be common ground, somewhere out there, even though it would be difficult to rewrite a story that had started off so badly.

An unexpected noise made her sit up straight in bed – music, she realised, a string tune that struck a clever balance between energy, elegance and coolness. It made her wiggle her toe and think of cowboys in a western movie, taking the measure of a town they planned to invade. Whatever it was, it was beautiful.

Next to her, Theo moved. “Show some mercy,” he groaned half-awake, pulling the blanket over his head. “It is rudely early.”

“No, it is not.” As if on cue, the door opened, and the Woman walked in, switching on the light. Creepy Gun-Guy followed her, carrying a daypack and pointing the weapon at the bed. “Time for breakfast,” the Woman added, releasing Lotta from the handcuffs. The music changed its tone, sounding airier and more energetic now. “Do you like your wake-up call? You can have more of it if you want.”

“It’s ok,” Lotta said, carefully massaging her right arm. She was not going to fraternise about music with these people.

“How about you, Mr Parker?” The Woman pulled the blanket from his face. “A wretched sight indeed.”

“Stop calling me that,” he mumbled.

“ _A wretched sight?_ \- Your lack of judgement has always been appalling. Now get up. I need you in that chair.” He sat up after she had opened his handcuffs, moaning like an old man and casting a quick glance at Lotta.

“Good morning,” she quietly said, hoping for a truce. He turned away, closing his eyes as if processing that the nightmare with which he had gone to bed had not disappeared during his sleep.

“Now sit down in that chair. Move!” the Woman said, and he moved. He was looking decidedly tired, his hair ruffled, the first stubble of a beard showing on his cheeks – and yet, yet he was still heartbreakingly handsome. Once he had taken a seat in the wing chair, the music stopped. The Woman took a newspaper from the daypack and tossed it at Theo. “You’re going to read an article from that while I’m filming you. Let the world see what a sad figure you cut when there’s no hair and make-up department around.”

So he was an actor after all. Lotta raised an eyebrow. _Theo Parker_. As much as she tried, she could not remember hearing his name before. Perhaps there was something familiar about his face, but who could tell after a night like that?

He did not comment but opened the newspaper that turned out to be a copy of the very dignified and respectable Times, dated today. “What do you want me to read? Megxit, Brexit or the virus?” he asked with as much disdain as was humanly possible.

“Not the virus. Chose something positive, darling.” If he registered the change of address, he was wise enough not to show it. Instead, he filed through the pages until something like a sardonic smile alighted his face. Unfortunately, it suited him quite well, that sardonic smile. “Right,” he said, folding the Times and taking an upright, more business-like position in the wing chair. “Am I supposed to say anything else? Date, name, state of mind?”

“Just read.” The Woman adjusted the angle of her phone. “Go.”

He looked up into the camera and nodded as if to greet his audience. Definitely an actor, Lotta decided. He knows what he is doing. His expression transformed into the composed mask of a reliable news anchor, and even his deep voice became more distinct and focussed, losing that slight slur that she found oddly attractive. “Court Circular,” he read. “Bucking…”

“You better take this seriously,” the Woman interrupted.

“I _am_ taking this seriously,” he replied. “You said: chose something positive, and I can’t think of anything more positive than our Royal Family calmly performing their duties in agitated times.” Lotta smiled to herself. He _was_ an intelligent man, after all.

“Start again, then,” the Woman said. “Go.”

 _“Court Circular. Buckingham Palace, 2nd_ _March. The Viscount Younger of Leckie (Lord in Waiting) was present at Heathrow Airport, London, this morning upon the Arrival of The President of the Republic of Malta and Mrs Vella and welcomed His Excellency and Mrs Vella on behalf of The Queen. Clarence House, 2nd March. The President of the Republic of Malta called upon_ _The Prince of Wales this afternoon. His Royal Highness, Colonel-in-Chief, The Gordon Highlanders, afterwards …“_ He patiently worked his way through His Royal Highness’s diary until the Woman called “Cut.”

“Do you want a second take?” That sardonic smile again.

“This one will do, darling.” She shoved the phone into her trousers.

“What about me?” Lotta asked.

“What about you, _Fräulein_?”

“Do you want me to read something too?”

“Why should I? This is about him, not about a silly librarian.”

“Right,” Lotta said, suppressing her impulse to comment.

“Anyway, it’s time for your breakfast.”

Breakfast, it turned out, was strong black tea from a thermos and some slices of toast with anchovies paste. It was not what Lotta would have considered a real breakfast, but she had learned her lesson and spent her time thinking instead of complaining about the anchovies paste. Her companion did not seem to care. Once the Woman and her partner had left and locked them in again, he unfolded the Times and hid behind a paper wall of alarming news.

“Can I ask you something?” she said after a while. He lowered the paper and rolled his eyes.

“The ubiquitous intern. Can’t I even read the news in peace?”

She was not going to be intimidated by him again. “As we seem not to have any other engagements today, you will have plenty of time for reading the news, and so will I. I was just wondering… do you think we are wiretapped?”

He raised his eyebrows, closing the paper. “Wiretapped? I don’t know. Why are you asking?”

“We are on camera observation, obviously. But the music this morning came from the Woman’s phone, so I was thinking… they never expected me to be here. They prepared this room for you, and there would be no reason to wiretap it if there was only one occupant… unless they expected you to hold the most fascinating monologues on the power of loneliness.” She had not dared to hope for it, and yet, her words made him smile, switching on a light in his eyes that illuminated his whole face.

“Not bad. I should never have guessed you were so… observant. But it does not change anything about our situation, does it?”

“At least we can talk freely. Which brings me to my second observation. She called me a _silly librarian_.”

“You don’t take that personally, do you?”

“I don’t. But how did she know?”

“Know what?”

“That I was a librarian before I was an intern.”

“I don’t understand,” he conceded. Of course, he did not. It was complicated, and she was not going to share the sad story of her life with him. She opted for the short version.

“Back home, I was a librarian. Before I came to London for the internship at SandY. But how does she know that? I only had my phone and some cash on me.”

“Something on your phone? Social media? Google?”

Lotta shook her head. “She would have to unlock my phone for that. I never told her my name, and I’m really not into social media.”

“Well.” He leaned back, eyeing her with fresh interest. “Any assumptions?”

“There must have been something about me in the news. As a missing person or someone connected to your disappearance. You can call me silly, but I find it comforting to think that someone’s looking for me.”

“No. You’re not silly. Not at all. And you have every right to look for comfort.” There was real warmth now in his eyes. Before she could think that maybe, he was not that bad after all, he added: “Would it add to your comfort if I shared the newspaper with you?”

“Massively. Though I’d prefer good news only.”

“That’s not guaranteed, I’m afraid. Such is life.”

And even though the news was mostly bad, they spent a surprisingly peaceful morning, swapping pages and comments on the state of the world. He offered her the wing chair, but she preferred to stay where she was, at the foot of the bed, leaning against the metal frame. Old fashioned as it was, the wing chair somehow suited him, she thought, providing him with a dignified frame for his pleasant appearance.

It was about noon when the Woman reappeared, throwing a bag at Theo. “Fresh clothes for you, darling.” He took a quick look inside and shook his head. “I’m not going to wear that.”

“You are. – Now, it’s lunchtime. What would you like, _Fräulein_?”

“I’d be very happy about yesterday’s avocado sandwich.” That sounded better than: Anything as long as it is neither cold pizza nor toast with anchovies paste.

“Sorry to disappoint you.” Their keeper handed her a Tupperware box and two plastic forks. “Today it’s the healthy option. Enjoy.” She left and locked them in while Lotta opened the box, staring in disbelieve at the contents.

“What is it?” Theo asked.

“Canned pineapple. That’s not food, that’s a punishment.”

“I agree. But it seems as if we don’t have much choice.

“I hate these people even more for making me eat this crap,” she announced.

“Did you know that two-hundred years ago, pineapples were considered a sign of wealth and prosperity?”

“No. But then again, they did not have canned pineapples two-hundred years ago, did they?”

“No. They used the originals as centrepieces for their table decorations to show off.” Lotta glanced at him thoughtfully. She had put him down as an actor, but was it conceivable that she had had him wrong? Maybe he was not an actor after all, but a historian specialised in horticulture. “What is it?” he asked.

“You seem to be quite the expert in all things concerning pineapples.”

“Oh, that… no, I’m not.” His cheeks turned a delightful pink, and as he was obviously uncomfortable now with the conversation, Lotta searched for a distraction. They had gained a careful truce over the day which she did not want to jeopardize.

“What’s in the bag?” she asked.

“Clothes.”

“Wrong size? Wrong colour?”

“Wrong century,” he answered and threw her the bag. She took out piece after piece: a white shirt with a high collar and wide arms. A black waistcoat with some elaborate embroidery. Black breeches and black stockings. And, the strangest thing of all, a pair of beautifully stitched braces. Lotta laid out the shirt on the bed. It was clean, ironed and, very much in contrast to her own clothes, not torn in several places. “Are you sure you don’t want to wear this?”

“Absolutely.” He didn’t even look at the clothes. He was locking down again, the fragile companionship of the morning gone.

“Would you mind if I tried them on?”

“Not at all.” The newspaper wall went up again.

Lotta carried her booty over to the bathroom and closed the door behind her. The breeches and the waistcoat were a bit too wide, and the shirt’s billowing sleeves made her feel like a bird spreading their wings, but with the help of the braces and some tugging, she managed. These clothes were cleaner, warmer and even more comfortable than the remnants of her skirt suit. They were also, with the tight breeches and the waistcoat, much more figure-hugging than anything she would typically wear. Unusual times called for unusual measures.

Theo looked up from behind his newspaper when she emerged from the bathroom, and for a moment, their eyes locked, and Lotta felt the colour rise to her face. “Right,” he finally said. “They suit you better than me. – I think this is not what our keeper intended but who are we to satisfy her every whim?” He cleared his throat and raised the newspaper again. This time, Lotta did not give in.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Seems I cannot stop you,” the voice behind the Times said.

“Are you an actor?”

The owner of the voice behind the Times appeared himself, cast away the paper and eyed her thoughtfully before asking: “Why do you think that?”

“Well, it’s just… what the Woman said about the hair and make-up department. And the way you were reading the court circular – like a professional news anchor. And these clothes… and I met you in the theatre district.”

“You are very observant, indeed. Yes, I’m an actor.”

“Am I supposed to know you? Or am I committing a terrible solecism if I admit that I do not know you?”

He laughed, and as before, that laugh alighted his whole face and gave him a boyish, even cheeky look. “Vanity demands that I say yes, you are committing a terrible solecism. But reason tells me that you might be excused because you’re neither into social media nor from an English-speaking country.”

“So where did I miss you?”

“If you’re a librarian, you will have heard about the Divergent series.”

“Oh…” She clearly remembered handling the books, filing them in the youth section. “That’s another dystopic story, isn’t it?”

“It was made into a film… three films, actually.”

“I see. To be honest, I don’t like dystopias. The premise is always that something terrible has happened to end life as we knew it, and that people are suppressed and unhappy. - And you were in those films?”

“Yes.” Playing which role, she thought. The good guy? The bad guy? The one that had to die? Or the part that was cut during editing? She did not dare to ask in case he started brooding again. He did not elaborate either and instead added after a few moments: “Do you know Downton Abbey?”

“Of course!” Now she was on familiar ground. “Then we definitely met before… even though it was through a TV screen in my great aunt’s living room. She’s the second coming of the Dowager Countess, you know… my great aunt, I mean. She used to be an English teacher and always makes me watch period dramas with her – but only the original versions. They lose all their appeal, she says, when dubbed into German. I had to watch Pride and Prejudice with her before going to London, the one with Colin Firth. She called it educational viewing. - I’m sorry, I’m talking too much again. You were in Downton?”

“Yes,” he said, somewhat gravely. She had loved those afternoons in her great aunt’s slightly crowded living room, with herself preparing tea and shortbread (things had to be done in style) and sorting out the ancient DVD player. Downton was a fantastic show, but she could not remember him in it. Was he one of the footmen? Or one of the noble guests? Definitely not a footman, with his looks and his voice he was more of Upper-Class material. Yet she had to admit that she did not remember him in either role. “What was your part?”

He looked away, towards the boarded window, scowled, then looked to her again. “Just a small role back in one of the first episodes.”

“I’m sorry,” Lotta said. “Don’t take it personally, but I simply cannot remember you in any of it.”

He gave in with a sigh, not meeting her eyes. “I was the Turkish diplomat that died in Lady Mary’s bed.”

“No!” She couldn’t help staring at him, trying to match the grumpy Mr Rochester-type in front of her with the beguiling young men who had charmed the entire household at Downton Abbey and especially the cold Lady Mary, seducing her and – in a most unexpected twist – dying of a heart attack in the process. “I think you looked a bit different then”, she finally said.

He shrugged his shoulders. “That’s what hair and make-up do for you. I was wigged, and they used an alarming amount of eyeliner to make sure I looked a bit more exotic.”

Lotta smiled. “Maybe you were a few years younger as well?”

“Maybe,” he admitted. She decided not to tell him that he seemed to be one of the lucky men that aged well. Very well, in fact. There was absolutely no reason to feed his vanity.

“What are you smiling about?” he asked.

“Oh… I was just thinking of my aunt’s face when I ever get to tell her that I have shared a bed with the Turkish diplomat who died in Lady Mary’s arms. – Though, considering our circumstances, that is maybe not a very appropriate comment.” She halfway expected him to explode again, but instead, he laughed.

“Considering the circumstances, I think that’s an indulgence you should be allowed to enjoy.”

“Thank you. Now, you’re an actor, and you were kidnapped in the theatre district – am I right to assume that there is some connection?”

“I’m not sure about the connection to our present situation, but yes, I was leaving the Garrick Theatre after rehearsals.”

“What were you rehearsing? Hamlet? Macbeth?”

He rolled his eyes. “You do realise that there are other English playwrights apart from Shakespeare?”

“I do. But I think you would make a great Hamlet, with all that brooding and dark looks.”

“Thank you for your honesty, I’ll make a note of it for my manager. – I am actually rehearsing something a bit lighter. It’s a musical, and the opening night is on the day after tomorrow.”

“Oh. Well … that’s more than 48 hours to go. Lots of things can happen until then.”

“Yeah. Either way, I’m probably going to miss it.” He unfolded the Times again and disappeared behind a wall of bad news. Lotta did not try to coax him back into conversation. He had opened up, at least a little, and that was a beginning. One step at a time: She would get to the bottom of this, there had to be a very valid reason why a third-rate actor was knocked out and abducted from a theatre yard. She remembered him asking her back in the van whether she was a fangirl, so maybe there was a clue… a fangirl gone mad. The Woman had, in fact, a very peculiar way of talking to him. Maybe she had him wrong, and he was not a third-rate but a second-rate actor… but one appearance in Downton and just another dystopic movie did not make a film star. Or did they? She definitely had to upscale her social media activities and extend her knowledge on films stars once this was over.

Later, the Woman arrived with Creepy Gun-Guy and threw them what she called dinner and what Lotta called tuna pizza gone cold. Theo turned away in disgust. “Come on,” Lotta said. “You have to eat something.”

“But not that crap.” He cast a contemptuous look at the tuna.

“I’ll admit this does not look like a very… happy tuna… but… think of it this way: You can turn this poor tuna’s fate into something special if you make sure it’s being eaten by a real Hollywood star.”

“I’m not a Hollywood star.” Thank you, Lotta thought, that’s all I wanted to find out. “And are you sure you’re a librarian and not a saleswoman?” he added.

“I am. Now, I’ll eat the tuna, and you can have the crust. We can put the blanket on the floor and pretend this is a picnic. I suppose we also have some pineapple left for dessert.”

“And water for wine?” He was smirking now.

“I see you’re getting the general idea.”

“Right. Let’s have a picnic.” They settled on the blanket, sharing what little food they had, and also sharing some of their thoughts. Lotta was careful not to ask any private questions, as she had a distinct impression that anything too personal would only make him lock up again. Yet they quickly established that they both shared a love for literature. Discussing their current reading quickly lead to discussing their past reading. When the Woman returned, announcing that it was time for bed, they both looked up as if caught, not realizing how quickly time had passed. They were chained to the metal frame of the bed again, Lotta on the left, Theo on the right side. “Sweet dreams”, the Woman said. The door was locked from the outside, the lights went out, and they were left in darkness.

“Good night, Theo,” Lotta said, curling up on her side.

“Good night, Lotta.” She could hear his handcuffs clinking on the metal frame as he was trying to make himself comfortable for the night. “Lotta?” she heard him say after a while.

“Yes?”

“I… I just wanted to say that you have given a good account of yourself today. I should never have guessed you were so… resourceful.”

“Oh,” she said, unsure about how to reply, and grateful for the darkness that covered her flushed cheeks. “Because I want to make sure that you are being fed or because I know something about literature?”

“A little of both, I daresay. I am sorry.”

“I am sorry, too. I’m equally guilty of dismissing you.” Some things, she realised, were easier to say under the cover of darkness. She heard his handcuffs rattle when he changed his position.

“You dismissed me as what?”

“Well, if I am perfectly honest, I had come to the opinion that you were nothing but a pretty poster-boy constantly posing as Mr Rochester in order to pretend there was some depth to the shallowness.” There was a sharp intake of breath on the other side of the bed. Had she gone too far? “And now you will tell me that I have no idea what I am talking about and that you do not care about what I think.”

The handcuffs were rattling again. “I invited your opinion. And there may be some value in what you say. I do realise I would not have been cast as the Turkish diplomat who died in Lady Mary’s bed if I had been born with a different face.”

“So that’s why you’re playing theatre now? To prove to the world that there is more to Theo Parker than a handsome face?”

“Theo Pa… well, yes.”

“Well,” Lotta said, pulling part of the blanket over to her and curling up again. “I still recommend Hamlet instead of the fluffy musical stuff you are doing. Or maybe a staged version of Jane Eyre, so you can live up to that Mr Rochester side of your personality.”

“I think I’m done with period dramas, but I will make sure you get a free ticket for the opening night of Hamlet,” he said with a chuckle. “Good night, Lotta,” he added, tugging the blanket away from her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: The music you were supposed to hear at the beginning of this chapter is of course “Boys are Back” from the Sanditon soundtrack. I hope it worked; I find transforming music into words extremely difficult, but I love this piece and the scene at the beginning of episode 3 when the boys walk into town.
> 
> The court circular is real, by the way.


	4. Admiral Lotta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kudos and feedback so far. I'm trying to post one or two chapters every day, so you don't have to wait too long to find out what's going on.

_**Wednesday, 4 th March** _

Finding sleep when chained with one hand to the metal rail of a bedframe proved to be a challenge again, especially when sharing bed and blanket with someone who had started a regular and not very gentle snore within minutes of saying good night. But Lotta must have fallen asleep, too, at some point because she found herself walking her father’s fields at home again, enjoying the refreshing sea breeze that came over from the not too distant Baltic Sea, feeling the sunbeams stroke her face. There was a figure at the end of the path in the shadow of a small copse, a blurred figure, but somehow familiar, waving at her, and she started waving back… she sat up bolt right and wide awake, sending pain through her chained arm.

Not the dream again, please, not again! She cast a glance at Theo whose snoring for a moment stopped and then rose to a dramatic cascade of heavy breathing before returning to a softer tune. She closed her eyes, allowing the tears to overflow. There was a period in her life when the dream had haunted her regularly. It had disappeared over the last couple of years, but now to return twice in two nights… it only went to show that no discussions of literature, no improvised picnics, and no billowing shirt sleeves could disguise the emotional stress she was suffering while she was chained to a bed and locked in by two gun-wielding people who seemed to have no inclination at all to change anything about the situation.

After that, it was difficult to go back to sleep. She tossed and turned around, trying to find the best position for her handcuffed arm, until the music from the day before made her sit up again: That string tune, balancing energy, elegance and coolness to a perfect level. She would have loved to jump out of bed and run to the window to find out whether there were, in fact, cowboys roaming around the house – but she was still chained to the bed, the window was boarded up and anyway, the chances of cowboys or anyone roaming around the house trying to find out what was going on inside were slim.

The lights were switched on, and the Woman walked in, followed by Creepy Gun Guy. “Time for breakfast, my darlings. – Mr Parker! Get up!”

Theo appeared from under the blanket, moaning and groaning, scratching the stubble of his beard. The Woman opened his handcuffs but left Lotta chained to the bed. “It is time for another readout, Mr Parker, don’t you think?” He answered with something like a grunt and stretched before shuffling over to the wing chair.

“You haven’t brought Hamlet, by any chance?”

“No, darling. It’s the court circular again.” She handed him the newspaper that was already opened at the correct page. “Go,” she said when she had sorted out her phone. Lotta watched Theo change into his reading position and check the text. Bleary-eyed, unkempt and unshaven as he was, his voice still managed to cast a spell that made his outward appearance forgotten.

_“Court Circular. Buckingham Palace, 3rd March 2020. The Queen held an Investiture at Buckingham Palace this morning. Clarence House, 3rd March 2020. The Prince of Wales, President, this morning visited the Royal College of Music, Prince Consort Road, London SW7, and was received by Colonel Charlotte Davis (Vice Lord-Lieutenant of Greater London). His Royal Highness this evening received the Right Honourable Boris Johnson, MP (Prime Minister and First Lord of the Treasury). The Prince of Wales received Major General …”_

Again, he worked his way through the Royal diaries with both patience and seriousness that Lotta found admirable. Then she remembered that he was an actor: This had to come naturally to him. He was putting on a show, trying to reassure whoever was going to watch this that he was doing fine, however wretched he looked.

Breakfast consisted of toast and anchovies paste and tea from a thermos, and after that, they settled down and shared the Times that turned out to be thinner than the day before. “Some pages are missing,” Theo noted who, after a visit to the bathroom and some tea, was slowly waking up and becoming talkative. Perhaps he is not a morning person, Lotta thought. Better do not try any conversation with him before ten o’clock.

“Maybe those pages were containing an article about an absent actor and a runaway intern?” she suggested. He shrugged with a smile.

“Maybe.” She thought about this. It was a small ray of hope.

“Do you think she’ll make you read the court circular again tomorrow morning? That is if we are still here tomorrow?”

“I fear we will, and I fear she will. She does not strike me as a very imaginative person. Why do you ask?”

“This court circular… that is so… very British and complicated with all these names and titles. Perhaps you can… somehow… smuggle some information in between the lines.”

He smiled at her in a way that made her heart jump. “Which is precisely why I chose the court circular yesterday and why I renamed the good Vice-Lord Lieutenant today.”

“You did?” Lotta grabbed the paper and searched for the relevant page.

“Her name is Jane. I changed it to Charlotte. That was about the best I could do to let anyone know you are here with me. Let’s hope that our warden doesn’t check the original text.”

“Even if she does, she will be frustrated with all these titles and honours by the time she gets to the third line.” She found it difficult to suppress her smile and even more difficult not to run over to the wing chair and hug him. “Maybe all this is just a part of your casting as the next James Bond.”

“I doubt it.”

“Come on, let us think about a brilliant secret message that you can smuggle out tomorrow.” There was, of course, the problem that there was next to nothing they knew about where they were and who their kidnappers were, let alone what tomorrow’s court circular would be. But composing secret messages was definitely better than doing nothing and watching the dust settle in the cracks of the wood.

By the time the Woman appeared with what she called lunch, they had a strategy and a plan for all eventualities of the next day’s readout. Lunch, as it turned out, was canned pineapples again.

“If this woman has any sense of humour at all, it is a bizarre sort of humour,” Lotta said. Theo eyed the sad yellow slices with evident disgust. She realised that this was one of these moments in which his mood was in danger of switching from fine to dark. “Any more wisdom on pineapples?” she asked lightly.

“Only that they are native to the Caribbean and are therefore today also considered to be a symbol of ruthless profiteering, colonialism and slavery. – Have you ever been to Bath?”

“No.”

“It’s well worth a weekend trip. And when you go there, have a look around The Circus. You’ll find variations of pineapples on many buildings. For you, as the average European visitor, it’s just an interesting element of architecture in a beautiful street. For someone with a Caribbean background, it might be a reminder of a past that was so hurtful that the pain still resonates today.”

“I didn’t know that,” Lotta said. His mouth was twitching.

“Of course not,” he conceded, not unkindly. “It’s a sort of specialised history knowledge. You have to look beyond what is obvious and take a different perspective.”

“And it makes this stuff only taste worse,” she said, making a mental note to research the pineapple business once she was out of this mess. For now, however, her priority was to stop Theo from shutting down again. “What are you going to eat first once we get out of here?” she asked. “I’m still hallucinating about that avocado sandwich I dropped back in the yard.”

“Hm.” He shot her short look as if to acknowledge that he understood her intention to distract him from the culinary catastrophe in front of them. “Look… I have been meaning to say… it was very kind of you to drop that avocado sandwich and run after me. I’m sorry if I ever said otherwise. If I were in this alone, I’d probably be talking to the wing chair by now.”

“And you’d be so much more grateful because the wing chair doesn’t talk back,” Lotta said, feeling herself going slightly pink. Was he actually apologising for being rude and hurtful in the beginning?

Theo chuckled and grabbed for the Times. “Come on. Let’s read the paper together and teach you a posh British accent.”

By the time he declared her accent posh enough, they had also clarified the pronunciation of weird English names such as Featherstonehaugh, Cholmondeley and Worcester, and discussed the news in depth. Lotta had to admit to herself that, strange as it was given their situation, she quite enjoyed herself. Theo was a considerate partner in conversation who thought things through and viewed facts from various angles before voicing an opinion, and even though this opinion more than once very much differed from her own, they always remained on respectful and civil terms with each other, trying to take the other’s perspective and to understand their point of view.

This was quite different from the conversations Lotta was used to having at home where her only kindred spirit was her great aunt, the former English teacher. The lives of her father and her elder brothers naturally revolved around the farm, the daily work and the daily challenges, and as to her youngest brothers… well, they were teenagers, and one was lucky if one got two sensible words out of them during the course of a day.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Theo said.

“Oh I… I’m sorry, I… was thinking of… home. - Not a very clever thing to do here,” she added, wiping a treacherous tear from her cheek.

“You don’t have to apologise,” he said and moved his hand as if to brush the tears from her face, but then seemed to think the better of it just before touching her cheek. “Is there anything I can do to divert your thoughts?”

“Tell me some vivid stories about your glamorous actor’s life?” she suggested with a sniffle.

“It looks much more glamorous on social media than it is in real life, you know. Mostly it consists of getting up in the small hours, spending endless time in hair and make-up to have the shadows under your eyes removed which you only got from getting up in the small hours in the first place. Then you have to wait – wait - wait for everyone to be ready, for the light to work and the whole technical equipment to be set up. Once you’re in a take, you have to start all over again, because someone’s forgotten their text or a cloud ruins the light, and if you ever get a scene properly acted, they’ll review it and find a microphone hanging in, and you have to go through the whole drill again.”

Lotta giggled, wiping away the last of the tears and fully aware he was talking like this to distract her. “What’s the worst thing you ever had to do for acting? Apart from dying in Lady Mary’s bed?”

“That was pretty bad, especially the part when I was dead, and they had to carry me across the whole castle.”

“I always thought they’d be using wax models in such cases.”

“Why bother with a wax model when you have a real actor at hand? Also, playing a dead diplomat is far less dangerous than doing stunts.”

“Right. Now you’re going to tell me that you insist on doing all your stunts yourself.”

“I try to. I like the exertion. Though I had someone to stand in for me for some of the Divergent scenes.” Lotta made a mental note of watching the Divergent movies if – when – she came home. Though perhaps not in her great aunt’s company. After a moment, Theo added: “But the worst thing I ever had to do was to dip into the Bristol Channel in mid-winter. That was brutal.”

“Good Lord! Were they trying to kill you?”

“Quite possible.” He chuckled. “I’ve never seen it from that perspective.”

“I believe you had infuriated the poor director before and enervated everyone with your brooding, and they quite enjoyed dumping you into the water.”

“Come to think of it, they might have.”

Lotta shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t worry. If you were surrounded by actors, you were not supposed to know what their real feelings towards you were.”

“You are very perceptive,” he said, eyeing her intensely. “Though I want to point out that they did not dump me into the sea. I had to emerge from it.”

“Like whom? Poseidon?” The idea of him rising from the waves sporting a trident and a long beard of seaweed made her smile again. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for the perfect distraction.”

“My pleasure”, he said in an equally soft tone.

“Domestic bliss and harmony,” came a voice from the door. “One does feel like an intruder.” Lotta turned around, feeling indeed somehow caught in something forbidden. Like enjoying herself while being kidnapped. The Woman was watching them, wielding the daily pizza boxes. “It’s dinnertime again, my darlings. What do you think you’ll have tonight?”

“Let me guess. Finally my avocado sandwich?” Lotta said unenthusiastically.

“Sorry to disappoint, _Fräulein_. Enjoy your meal.”

It was another night of cold tuna pizza, of course. Lotta sighed. “I really don’t recommend this place for a holiday. The company improves on acquaintance, but everything else is such a disappointment. I’d really like to have a word with the manager.”

“I have an inkling that he will not be available for your complaint, _Fräulein_ ,” Theo said with a mock accent.

“Don’t you _Fräulein_ me as well! If you do, I’ll make you learn Faust’s monologue by heart. In German.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Please don’t. – But you could teach me those lovely swearwords you used the other day. What did you call our keeper?”

“That’s basically untranslatable and would only lead to another diplomatic crisis.”

“Then we’ll leave it. - So… what are we to do with this unhappy tuna? Have another picnic?”

Lotta looked around, grabbing the newspaper and the blanket. “I have a better idea. Let’s celebrate your heroic sea-bathing experience by returning that poor tuna to their natural element. – I suggest a sailing trip,” she added when she saw Theo’s blank face. “The bed might cover for a yacht. Do you know how to fold paper boats?” He did not, but he learned to. Half an hour later they were comfortably seated opposite from each other on the mattress, surrounded by a flotilla of paper boats sailing the blanket and the floor.

“Where are we travelling to?” he asked, separating the crust from the pizza.

“To the Caribbean. Off to meet the pineapples in their natural habitat.”

“That’s an excellent plan, Admiral Heywood.”

“Who’s that? Another character you played?”

“No, that was…” He was staring at her, obviously distracted and maybe a tiny little bit befuddled. Then he shook his head. “A slip of the tongue. Sorry. Just forget I ever mentioned the name.”

“I will,” Lotta said, making another mental note to google Admiral Heywood once she got out of this. Maybe that was the one significant role that would have made his career if only it had not been snatched away from him by some other actor, someone more talented and more charismatic, someone better looking. Well, maybe not better looking, because that was practically impossible. She tried to remember whether there was an Admiral Heywood in the Star Wars movies which she had watched with her younger brothers. Or maybe in the Marvel Universe? Her brothers would know. She had never expected that moving away from her village and out into the world would leave her feeling constantly overwhelmed by reality. She sighed.

“All is well onboard?” he asked.

“All is well, Captain Parker,” she confirmed, taking a bite out of her pizza.

“Only you’ve stopped talking. That’s not like you.”

“I’m just… overcome by the delights of this… this…”

“…piece of cold tuna pizza?” he suggested with a grin.

“Exactly.” She took another bite. The taste of it – chewy and cold – lit a spark in her mind.

“What is it?” Theo said. He had been looking at her and must have seen her face change.

“Something’s just occurred to me. Maybe… well, maybe I _have_ watched too many bad crime movies, but… do you realise that they have been feeding us cold tuna pizza for three days in a row now?”

“It hasn’t escaped my notice.”

“Why is it always cold?”

He looked at her questioningly, obviously trying to follow her train of thoughts. “Because it’s takeaway?” he offered.

“Yes. So either it’s gone cold on the way here because the place where they buy it is far away, or they buy it somewhere nearby during the day and leave it until we are getting served in the evening.”

“Right,” he nodded. “How is that important?”

“Either way, they have been buying tuna pizza at…” she grabbed for the box and studied the printing on it “… at Dantino’s Pizza Express for three days in a row. Do you remember our first pizza night on Monday? They served us two pizzas, not one. When they bought it, they must have known that I was here as well. Therefore my guess is that Signor Dantino resides nearby, that one of them goes there during the day – and that they will be recognised there. – So I was thinking… if we somehow managed to sneak the information about the pizza place and the tuna into the court circular, we might…”

“… be able to provide a clue of where we are. – That, my dear Watson, is bloody brilliant.”

“I’m still Lotta, and I think it’s very risky.”

Theo shrugged his shoulders and smiled broadly. “Better take a risk than starve on cold pizza for the rest of our lives.” He jumped out of bed and held out his hand to her. “Come on.”

“What is it?”

“Let’s dance.”

“But… there is no music.”

“I’ll hum a tune for you. Come on… you curtsey, and I bow.”

“I don’t know the steps.”

“I’ll show you. It’s easy, just mirror what I do. You’ll get the hang of it.”

Lotta stood facing him one meter apart, wondering what was going to happen next. He bowed, and she curtseyed (albeit a little stiffly, as she had never curtseyed to anyone before). After another moment’s pause, he indeed started humming a strange and beautiful melody, moving back and forth with it. It was easy, Lotta realised, gliding forwards, gliding backwards, raising her arms, their hands searching each other without ever touching, all the while his eyes rested on hers, and she looked up to him. Another most subtle touch of their hands, a careful pirouette from which he sent her spiralling back into his arms before drawing her close to him and waltzing happily through the room and over the paper boats as if freed from a terrible burden. Finally – and maybe reluctantly – he stopped humming and stood facing her as if he wanted to say something (and in fact, there were several things Lotta would have loved to hear at this moment), but then, with a nearly inaudible sigh, he released her and took a bow, and she replied with a curtsey.

“Thank you, _Fräulein Lotta_.”

“Thank you, Mr Parker.” She felt herself blush and moved further away from him. “That was… beautiful.”

“I’m glad you liked it.”

“I’ll consider a career in acting instead of architecture if that is what you learn in drama school,” she said, trying to sound playful.

“It’s more one of the perks that come with the job,” he said with a half-smile.

“There’s nothing like dancing to restore one’s spirits. - Right. Let’s clear up the mess, shall we?” she suggested, looking at the trampled paper boats and the remnants of their dinner around them. “And then we have to work out how to spin tuna pizza from Dantino’s Pizza Express into tomorrow’s court circular. Do you think it likely His Royal Highness will pay Signor Dantino an impromptu visit to knight him for his services to the nation’s pizza supply?”

It took them some time to decide on the best course of action. When the Woman and Creepy Gun-Guy arrived for bedtime, they were seated in their usual positions, Theo in the wing chair and Lotta on the bed, their conversation having reverted to their favourite topics of literature and politics. “My, my,” the Woman said. “You have made quite a spectacle of yourselves today.” She pointed at the camera in the corner of the ceiling. “We have been highly entertained. Did you enjoy your rout at Mrs Maudsley’s, _Fräulein_?”

“I would be so grateful if you stopped dropping names of people I’ve never met,” Lotta said with a sigh. But a few moments later, during her five minutes of privacy in the bathroom, she had to admit to herself that she had, in fact, enjoyed that strange dance, enjoyed it very much… too much, if she was perfectly honest. “ _Verdammt_ ,” she murmured, leaning her hot face against the cold tiles of the bathroom walls. Was this what psychologists called the Stockholm Syndrome? No, that would be forming an emotional bond with her kidnappers. She was far away from falling for Creepy Gun-Guy - or the Woman, for that matter. But she was falling – very much, very quickly and very deeply – for her companion in imprisonment. “But we’re in an extreme situation,” she said to herself. “These things happen in extreme situations when you’re emotionally raw. It will end once we are out of this.”

“Are you talking to yourself now?” The Woman was pounding the door. “Is Mr Parker such a bad listener? Come out there, beauty time is over.”

Lotta was very quiet when the Woman chained her to the bed. She listened to her performing the same procedure with Theo, then curled up on her side, turned her back on him and tried to put even more distance between them than during the previous nights while retaining at least part of the blanket. “Sweet dreams, lovely ones,” the Woman said and switched off the light. Lotta heard Theo breathe on the other side of the bed, and she felt her heart beat heavily.

“Good night, Lotta,” he said after a few moments, his handcuffs clinking as he curled up and pulled a good part of the blanket away from her.

“Good night, Theo,” Lotta said and brushed away the unwelcome tears running down her cheeks.


	5. The Figure in the Copse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one comes with a warning: In this chapter you’ll learn a bit more about Lotta’s background, but you might find it distressing as it deals with grief and the loss of a loved one

**_Thursday, 5 th March_ **

Finding sleep when chained with one hand to the metal rail of a bed frame would be difficult under any circumstance. Finding sleep when chained to the bedframe while in emotional turmoil proved to be an extra challenge, especially with part of the reason for the emotional turmoil snoring gently on the other side of the bed.

But at some point, Lotta must have fallen asleep, for she found herself walking her father’s fields at home again, enjoying the refreshing sea breeze that came over from the not too distant Baltic Sea, feeling the sunbeams stroke her face. There was a figure at the end of the path in the shadow of a small copse, a blurred figure, but somehow familiar, waving at her. She started waving back, moving closer, smiling, for now, the figure’s face was out of the shadow, the features becoming clear, and she had been missing this face for so long… she sat up bolt right bed, her head spinning, her heart racing and her cheeks wet. The dream was holding her in a tight grip.

She cast a glance over her shoulder at Theo, who had stopped snoring. She held her breath for a moment, listening, hoping that she had not woken him up. There, a creak from the ancient bedframe, surely signifying that he was just searching for a more comfortable pos… “Do you want to tell me what it’s about?” a deep, kind and reassuring male voice asked.

“It’s… nothing. I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

“Are you sure it’s nothing?”

“Absolutely. Just a bad dream. Not surprising, considering the circumstances.” She heard him move again, his handcuffs rattling while he sat up against the headboard. When he had settled, he spoke again.

“It’s only… I’ve been listening to you crying and screaming in your dreams for three nights in a row now, Lotta. I’m a bit concerned.”

“But… you were supposed to be asleep. - You were snoring!” she cried out, torn between anger and something exceedingly more complex. He chuckled above her in the darkness.

“I’m an actor. I can fake a decent snore if I find it necessary.” Lotta closed her eyes. This had to be one of the most embarrassing moments of her life. Oddly enough, it didn’t feel like that. It didn’t feel like that at all. “So,” she heard him say with that kind and warm voice that touched her even more because he hardly ever used it. “If you want to tell someone what’s ailing you, you’ll find a sympathetic listener just next to you. I’m not going to go away, at least not until tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you,” Lotta said in a small voice. “I… I’m sorry that I’m such a mess.”

“You’re not a mess. Don’t doubt yourself.”

She sat up, settling against the headboard as well. She could not see him in the total darkness of the room, and she was careful not come too close to him, but she sensed him next to her, and that helped.

“Let’s get more comfortable,” he said, pulling the blanket over their legs, and they sat, listening to the complete stillness around them.

“The dream… started five years ago,” Lotta said after a while. “It became less frequent after a while, but it’s come back every night since… since Monday.”

“I probably don’t have to tell you that emotional stress triggers such reactions and that we are under emotional stress here, however much we try to distract ourselves with picnics, boat trips and dancing lessons.”

“I do know that. I… I even think that is why my father didn’t want me to go to London in the first place.”

“He didn’t?”

“No, he…” She tried to remember what exactly her father had said. “He told me to be careful. Careful of everything.”

Theo chuckled softly. “And there you are, walking directly into a kidnapping scene.”

“He knows me too well,” Lotta said. “I have always been like that. I have five younger brothers, and I think keeping them out of trouble is my middle name. – I understand I should have called the police back in the yard. But you know… that’s not what you do when you see your little brother being beaten up by the village bully.”

Theo remained silent for so long that she started wondering whether he had fallen asleep after all. When he spoke, his voice was soft and full of remorse. “I have done you a great discourtesy, Lotta. I have underestimated you.”

Without realising what she did, Lotta moved again until their shoulders touched. “My mother died five years ago in a car crash. That’s when the dream started. My father is a farmer in a small village where nothing ever happens, and life isn’t exactly exciting for young people. If you’re lucky, there’s a party or a disco somewhere in the neighbourhood where everyone gets drunk as quickly as possible, and if you’re really bold, you get high on pills or weed or whatever you find.”

“Suppose that’s the same in any rural area in any country,” Theo said.

“Suppose you’re right. My parents were wise enough to remember that from their own youth, and they didn’t want us to be driving around the countryside in a state of inebriation. So they always picked us up. And our friends. Any time, any place. – I wasn’t living at home anymore when the accident happened. I was studying in Berlin and working on my bachelor thesis. I’d been to England for a semester abroad, and I genuinely believed that my life would happen in Paris or London or New York, not in a place where the bus stops twice a day, and the highlight of the calendar is the annual shooting competition. I had been accepted for an internship at the Goethe Institute in London after my exams, and I was sure I had left the village behind me and would only ever return for a holiday.” She had to brush away a tear that had come up with the memory of her mother and that five-year younger version of herself.

“Take your time,” Theo said.

“Thank you. – That… that night my mother drove out to pick up two of my brothers and their friends from a school party. On the way there… The road is running through a small copse close to my father’s farm. She… her car… she collided with a Mercedes driven by a posh boy from the city who had pinched his father’s car for a race on empty country roads.”

“Oh my God… I’m so sorry, Lotta.”

She swallowed. “In the dream, I see her walking out of the copse. She’s waving at me, and I’m so happy to see her. I want to go to her, just hug her for one last time, but when I come closer, I… I… see her face, and it’s all… “ Her voice nearly broke. She felt Theo touch her with his free hand, ever so lightly, as if he were afraid to break her if he really took hold of her. Never had she been so close to telling the whole story, and she understood that if she did not go on now, she never would. “… it’s all gone. And in all that mess I can still find a vestige of my mother’s features, and it’s as if she’s asking me to join her… there… wherever she is.” She breathed in, and with that breath came the tears, and with the tears Theo’s hand, gently stroking her hair. “There, there,” she heard him murmur while she cried on his shoulder.

“I’m ruining your T-Shirt,” she whispered some time later.

“That’s what you already did back in the van when you crushed my nose.” She closed her eyes, acknowledging the light note he was inserting into a difficult conversation, and tried to do the same.

“I wish they had complimentary tissues here.”

“Just another terrible lack of service at this place. Definitely not recommended. You will have to content yourself with your billowing shirt sleeves, I’m afraid.”

Lotta wiped her face and her nose, trying not to move too much because he had put his free arm around her shoulder now and she did not want to lose this touch.

“So what happened afterwards?” he asked after a while as if he’d understood by intuition that the story did not end at the copse. Lotta sighed.

“I never went to London. Or Paris. Or anywhere. I went home and took care of my family. My father was devastated, my two eldest brothers were consumed by guilt and the younger ones… well. I think during the first year, there was always someone crying somewhere in the house, even though they wouldn’t admit it because they wanted to be hard men. That made it even worse. Somehow, I managed to finish my bachelor thesis and my exams, though not with the marks I had wished for. When my youngest brothers… they are twins… when they turned fourteen two years ago, I took up a part-time job for our district library, driving the book bus from village to village. It’s… I mean… it’s not the most exciting job of the world, but I get around a bit, I meet people, I can talk about books, and whenever I’m on the road, I feel less… stuck.”

“I think I understand what you mean,” Theo said. “And how did you end up as an architect’s intern in London?”

Now she had to smile. “That began last summer. There was this English couple… Marty and Tamzin. They were on a road trip through Germany… They are lovely people, but Marty is a terrible driver, and he never got around to driving on the other side of the road. So their round trip came to a very sudden end when they hit our garden fence. They had to wait one week until their car was repaired, and that was really annoying for them because it was high season and all the accommodation in the area were either booked up or super-expensive. My father offered them to stay at our place, in exchange for some English practice with my brothers. I got on really, really well with Tamzin. I suppose… I suppose I saw kind of a mother-figure in her. I told her about the plans I had once made for living in London. Marty was listening in and said he was going to arrange something for me. He is easily excited and always over-enthusiastic about new schemes, so I didn’t expect anything to come out of it. And yet, shortly before Christmas he called and told me I could start an internship at an architect’s company in March. He’s in the building business, and SandY is one of his partner firms. He even invited me to stay with his family at their house in Bloomsbury in exchange for some childcare on the weekends. It felt as if… as if fate had gifted me with a second chance. It was almost a miracle. My very last escape route. - So I handed in my notice at the rolling library, taught my brothers how to cook, and booked a flight to London.”

“Only to have your second chance botched as well,” Theo said, giving her shoulder a friendly little squeeze.

“We’ll not be here forever,” she said. “And I’m very optimistic they will forgive me at SandY for not returning from that lunch break.”

“If not, let me know. I’ll give your boss a call.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, meaning not only the potential call to Mr Young.

“You’re welcome,” he said with that kind and warm voice that made her heart beat a little quicker. “Now let’s find out whether we can still find some beauty sleep,” he added, shifting his position. “Tomorrow’s going to be another exhausting day full of secret messages, exciting excursions and delightful tuna pizza.”

Lotta giggled, curling up as usual, but this time not trying to stay on the very edge of the bed, as far away from him as possible. They didn’t touch, but they didn’t flinch away from each other either.

“Good night, Lotta,” Theo said, sorting out his handcuffed arm and pulling the blanket away from her.

“Good night, Theo,” Lotta said. This time she did not care about the blanket. He had proven to be a sympathetic listener indeed, and he deserved some warmth and comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was heavy stuff. To cheer everyone up (including myself), I’m going to post the next chapter rightaway. Stay calm and stay safe!


	6. Mr Darcy Takes the Stage

_**Thursday, 5 th March** _

Emotionally drained as she was, she finally fell asleep again. It was the guitar tune that woke her up, that perfectly balanced mix of energy, elegance and coolness.

The Woman walked in and switched on the lights, followed by Creepy Gun-Guy. “Good morning, my lovely rays of sunshine. A special Thursday morning, I hear.”

“Is it?” Lotta asked, carefully massaging her chained hand that had gone numb. She felt exhausted and a little soft in the head from last night’s crying.

“It is,” the women confirmed and stepped on Theo’s side of the bed. “What’s the leading man doing? Oversleeping as always?”

“Go away,” someone from underneath the blanket grumbled. Definitely not a morning person, Lotta thought.

“But today is the day,” the Woman said. “Or rather: tonight’s the night. Looking forward to it?” she asked, pulled the blanket away and opened Theo’s handcuffs. “Come on, handsome. It’s time for our daily readout.”

Theo, groaning and moaning, shuffled over to the wing chair, barely acknowledging the Woman, Creepy Gun-Guy or Lotta. Lotta was grateful for it. Last night’s revelations, seen in the light of a looming day, made her feel shy and awkward towards him now. Had she really cried on his shoulder and told him her sad little life story under the cover of the darkness? How embarrassing was that!

“What a sorry sight you have become, Mr Parker,” the Woman said, but that of course was a lie. Even with the uncombed hair, the wild beard, the bloodshot eyes and the stained and crumpled T-Shirt, he was still and undeniably a handsome man. Or maybe _I_ still see him, Lotta thought because my perspective has changed.

Theo fiddled around with the newspaper and Lotta asked: “Please, can I say something today?”

“No,” the Woman said, switching her phone into camera mode.

“But I’d really like to give a message to my family.”

“You are collateral damage, so shut up.”

“But…”

“Shut up!” The Woman turned to Theo. “Ready?” He nodded, only to start a loud and distinct cough.

“Is that the virus?” the Woman said.

“No,” Theo shook his head and then quite dramatically coughed again. “That’s the common cold. It’s icy in here during the night, and she keeps stealing the blanket from me.”

“I do not!” Lotta exclaimed.

“You do.” Another cough, then he cleared his throat. “Do you think I could have some water, Mrs Griffiths?”

The Woman’s eyes behind the mask lit up. “Now we are finally getting somewhere, Mr Parker. – Get him some water,” she said to Creepy Gun-Guy. Theo continued clearing his throat until he was handed a plastic mug, and Lotta tried to hide her smile because the first part of their strategy had worked out well. They would have to discuss the matter of the blanket though, and she made another mental note to ask who Mrs Griffiths was. He had told her the night before that he would improvise and might have to offend her. The goal was clear: delay the recording and gain time so that he could acquaint himself with the court circular and find a way to slip in Dantino’s tuna pizza. “That’s better,” he announced with another dramatic cough. “I think we might start.”

 _“I think we might start,”_ the Woman – Mrs Griffiths? – echoed. “You’re not in charge here, do you understand?”

“I do. Could you change the angle, though? I think if you took a step to the right, you would highlight the left side of my face. It’s actually a bit more regular than the right side.”

“This is not a modelling contest,” Mrs Griffiths snapped. “And the left side of your face is as ugly as the right.”

“Right. OK. Sorry.” He positioned himself in the wing chair while Lotta hid her smile. They had to be careful not to overdo it, but it was delightful watching him act out the vain movie star nonetheless.

“Go,” Mrs Griffiths said.

Theo cleared his throat once more. _“Court Circular. Buckingham Palace, 4 th March 2020. __Her Excellency Mrs Bárbara Elena Montalvo Álvarez_ ” – he made a bit of a show of the Spanish pronunciation which left Mrs Griffiths rolling her eyes– _“ was received in audience by The Queen today and presented the Letters of Recall of her predecessor and her own Letters of Credence as Ambassador from the Republic of Cuba to the Court of St. James's. Sir_ Dan _McDonald (Permanent Under-Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs) was present. The President of the Republic of Malta and Mrs_ Tino _Vella visited The Queen this afternoon. The Right Honourable Boris Johnson MP (Prime Minister and First Lord of the Treasury) had an audience of Her Majesty this evening. Clarence House, 4 th March 2020 **.** The Prince of Wales, Chairman, the Royal Collection Trust, this morning chaired a Meeting of the Trustees. The Prince of Wales, President, WWF-UK, later received Mr Pavan _Anut _Sukhdev (President, WWF-International). Kensington Palace, 4 th March 2020. The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge this morning visited Jigsaw Dublin City, 44 Essex Street…” _He calmly worked his way through the Cambridge’s busy schedule on their roundtrip to Ireland. Afterwards, Mrs Griffiths threw them their breakfast – anchovies toast and tea from the thermos – and Creepy Gun-Guy cast them an angry look while wielding his weapon before they were locked in again. They listened to their wardens’ steps disappear on the corridor before glancing carefully at each other.

“That was brilliant,” Lotta said.

“Do you really think so? I’m not sure it worked. And there will be hell to pay if they find us out.”

“I don’t think they will. You were so clever to split poor Signor Dantino into two halves.”

“I hope our police force is equally clever.” He eyed his toast with a dark look, and she understood that they were just moments away from another shutdown into brooding.

“We have to discuss the matter of the blanket though,” she said playfully. “ _You_ are constantly stealing it from _me_.”

“I’m not! I wake up every night shivering and cold with you cosy, warm and snug by my side.”

“You _are_ stealing it,” Lotta said with a smile. “But you are forgiven,” she added in a more solemn tone. “Because you are also a sympathetic listener.” – and when she saw him nod, she knew that all had been said that had to be said about the previous night.

“Who is this Mrs Griffiths by the way?” she asked when they had both finished their toast and their tea. Hopefully not another slip of the tongue, she added for herself.

“She’s a… someone from a series I once did. A kind of a… jailer.”

“A dangerous and sinister character? Very fitting. I like that.”

Theo shrugged, then disappeared behind the Times. Close to shut down again. Today, however, she thought she knew what was ailing him. “Is there… is there anything about your play in the paper?” she asked.

“Don’t know.” He flipped through the pages. “Part of it is missing again.”

She moved a little closer. “Will they cancel the opening night? If you’re not there?” He put down the paper and regarded her, wrinkling his nose and clenching his teeth. It was a facial expression she had seen him make before, and it generally meant that he was not happy with the way things were going. For a moment, she expected another rebuke, but then he shook his head.

“I think the correct wording is not _if I’m not there_ but _now that I will not be there_.”

“I’m sorry for you. I can see that it means a lot to you. What are they going to do _now that you will not be there_? They have to cancel the opening night, don’t they?”

“Because I’m not there? No. They would be losing too much money if they did that. They cannot cancel a whole play because one of the actors is missing. Contracts have been signed, and tickets have been sold until the summer. People’s jobs depend on it. And think of all the extra promotion the play must have received over the last few days.”

“But what are they going to do with your part?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Make a statement of how very concerned they are by my disappearance, include me in their thoughts and prayers and ask my understudy to step in.”

“You have an understudy?”

“One of the supporting actors. Just a precaution in case I break a leg, lose my voice or… well, end up being incarcerated by a couple of lunatics.”

Lotta thought about this. “So… your understudy gets a chance to shine when you are not there.”

“So it would seem. The show must go on.” He opened the newspaper again.

“But that’s the solution. Don’t you see it? Your understudy makes sure you get out of the way on Monday, so he has enough time to prepare for the opening night. And while you are going to spend another sad evening in the company of Signor Dantino and me, he stands on the stage in London and receives the laurels you deserve.”

Theo laughed. “If you ever chose to write a novel, I suggest that this is your plot. But in the real world, my understudy is too inebriated most of the time to develop a straight thought. He is the perfect guy if you are looking for someone for a great night out, and I have heard that he has a surprising number of female followers on Instagram, but he is also… let’s say neither the most reliable nor the most ambitious member of the cast. He believes in spontaneity and once told me that too much rehearsing for a play was tantamount to cheating. Actually, he might be very annoyed about having to take over from me at such short notice.”

“Maybe he’s been pretending all the time. He’s an actor, after all.”

“Take my word for it,” Theo said. “Cory doesn’t have anything to do with this. It’s a conundrum.”

“But a conundrum can be solved,” Lotta said, full of determination. He gave her a friendly smile and handed her part of the newspaper. “Here. Try to solve some of the world’s conundrums first.” She tried and failed for a while until her curiosity prevailed.

“How can you be so calm about it? This is your opening night, and someone is stealing it from you.”

He lowered the paper. “I’m not calm about it. I’m trying to be stoic.”

“But stoicism is not going to get us out of here!” she cried, pounding her foot against the metal frame of the bed.

“Neither is random violence,” he said, grinning while she danced across the room like a shaman around the fire, trying to suppress the pain in her toes.

“I’d really like to throttle Mrs Griffiths and kick Creepy Gun Guy where it hurts most.”

“And I’d like to see them in court,” he replied calmly. “Look,” he added after a moment’s thinking. “I know the situation is… a good deal less than perfect. But I think we’ll just have to sit it out. I believe we don’t have to be afraid for our lives.”

“What makes you think that? Creepy Gun Guy’s cheeky grin?” Lotta started wondering whether he was going nuts. Then it dawned upon her. “No… wait – you know something.”

The newspaper went up between them again. Really a most powerful prop. She decided that she had had enough of actor’s antics now and tore the paper out of his hands. “Tell me what it is.”

He shifted his position in the wingchair, glancing uncomfortably around him. “Tell me,” she repeated. “I’m a victim here. I have the right to know.”

Theo gave in with a sigh. “Do you remember when back in the van you asked me whether I was super-rich or whether someone was holding a grudge against me?”

“I do. You said you were not super-rich and that even though you might have alienated some people, none of that would justify an abduction.”

“Right. You have a good memory.”

“So what are you trying to tell me? That you are super-rich after all or that you stole the part of Mr Darcy in a Pride and Prejudice remake from someone indefinitely more talented who is now out on revenge?” She had used the first iconic male role in British drama that had come to her mind, yet judging by the look on Theo’s face, she had struck gold.

“Why do you mention Mr Darcy?” There was something wary in his voice, maybe even dangerous. Lotta decided to play it cool and gave a non-committal shrug.

“Maybe I should have stuck with Mr Rochester. And come to think of it, you are a bit too old for Mr Darcy. Mr Knightley perhaps?”

“Why do you want to cast me as an Austen hero?” he said, now anger and suspicion in his eyes.

“I don’t want to cast you at all,” Lotta said. “I want to find out why you are here and how we can get out.”

“But you said Mr Darcy.”

“I’m sorry if you’re feeling offended because I mentioned the one iconic male role in British drama that first came to my mind. I think you also said something about being done with period drama. So let me rephrase: Are we here because you have stolen the part of Inspector Barnaby’s new sidekick from someone who is much more talented but less pleasant to look at?”

“Just forget everything I said.” He stood up and walked over to the window, staring outside without seeing more than the wooden boards that locked them in. She knew that body language too well: he was in shutdown-mode again. For now, she let him go. She was feeling exhausted and befuddled by the conversation, unable to match the pieces of the puzzle yet sure that the solution was somewhere there, nearly in her grasp.


	7. Divergent

When Mrs Griffiths and Creepy Gun Guy appeared with their daily pineapple lunch, Lotta and Theo were both deeply lost in their own thoughts. “No lively discussion today?” Mrs Griffiths said. “Not looking forward to the evening’s delights, Mr Parker?”

He replied by turning his back on her. “Don’t you worry,” she said to Lotta. “He can be abrupt and inattentive, as he is right now with me, but he has a good heart. – At least so they say.” Equally abrupt, he turned around again.

“Whatever you are trying to achieve, it is not going to work.”

“Oh, but it is. Quite well, actually. – There you go.” She handed Lotta the box. “Enjoy your lunch and see you tonight.” The door closed behind their jailers. Lotta inspected the box. Together with two plastic forks, something else was attached to the lid: a piece of paper rolled up like a message in a bottle.

“Look at that,” she said to Theo.

“Open it,” he said with a shrug. She detached the paper with her heart beating wildly. Maybe… a message from their families? Instructions on how to get out of this place?

“What does it say?” he asked.

“It’s… it looks like a task for a philosophy class in school.”

“What?” With one large stride, he was by her side.

 _“A man cannot step into the same river twice,”_ she read out. _“For he’s not the same man and it is not the same river. – Discuss in-depth.”_

Theo sunk down in the wing chair, shaking his head in desperation, then hiding it in his hands.

“Heraclitus,” Lotta said matter of factly. He looked up.

“You know that?”

“Of course I do. _Panta rhei_. Everything flows. I had to do a presentation on Heraclitus in philosophy class in school. Did you know that he is considered to have had a very dark and moody personality? I cannot help myself, but somehow that reminds me of someone. – Would you like to taste a delicious piece of canned pineapple, by the way?”

“No, thank you. My appetite is quite gone.”

Suddenly she felt bad for making fun of him. Clearly, he was suffering like her, even if he was less inclined to show it. And tonight would have been his big night on stage.

“I didn’t mean to offend you when I implied you reminded me of Heraclitus. It was only meant in jest.” He raised his eyebrows.

“Maybe I’m not used to being a source of amusement.”

“Maybe it’s the sum of our experiences that make us who we are,” she said with a smile. “Now let’s concentrate on the task at hand.”

“You do not want to discuss philosophy with me now.”

“Why not? Apart from an appointment tonight with Signor Dantino and his delightful tuna pizza my diary is very empty. – So what about it? _A man cannot step into the same river twice for he is not the same man and it is not the same river._ Interesting that it is not only the man but also the river that changes, don’t you think? I believe what Heraclitus wants to tell us is that whenever you get a second chance after messing up and think you have learned from it, the result can become a disaster again because the outward circumstances have changed as well.”

“Do you think our lives would be easier if we could just go back to start and begin all over again?”

“No. That would be a life without learning and experience. No-one likes to suffer and feel pain, and yet, it’s not the pink sugar-candy moments in which we discover most about ourselves but the more difficult situations.”

“Like when you witness an abduction in a back yard?”

Lotta sighed. “I told you I’m sorry I didn’t react differently.”

“But you _did_ react in the first place. Most people would have walked past without paying attention, and if they had paid attention, they would not have reacted. That’s what counts. Taking action and taking responsibility. To be prepared to make a decision, even if it turns out to be the wrong one and live with its consequences.” There was a glim in his eyes that told Lotta he was thinking about something that had nothing at all to do with her running into the yard.

“Is this a leadership training?” she asked.

“I’d rather call it a hero’s journey,” he said with a sad smile, returning to her. “Or a heroine’s. A dauntless heroine. Like Tris, you know.”

Tris? Now who was that? His girlfriend? His sister? His sister, she decided. Twins, perhaps. Theo and Tris. That was an obvious choice parents would make, wasn’t it?

“Come on,” he said. “Tris? The heroine of the Divergent novels? What kind of librarian are you?”

“The one who sees it as her mission to introduce readers, especially the younger ones, to literature, not to the latest hype,” she said with some dignity.

“And how successful were you in that?

“Not as successful as I might have wished for,” she replied. “But I managed to hide the Shades of Grey books for nearly two years and pretended that they were currently lent out.” This made him laugh. And seeing him laugh, genuinely and unguarded, was something that always elevated her heartbeat. It was only when his laughter simply would not stop that she had a terrible revelation. “Oh, my God. Don’t tell me you are the actor who played Mr Grey in the movies.”

“I… no,” he managed to say between two chuckles. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“I’m actually quite relieved. Though it would have explained a lot about our situation here. - Let’s get back to Tris. What happens to her?”

“Well, basically…” He stopped laughing, bit his underlip and shook his head. “She dies.”

“What?”

“She dies.”

“But it’s a dystopia.”

“It is. The premise is that…”

“But how can she die if it’s a dystopia? If she is the heroine, she must live! She has to liberate the people, reinstall the democratic order and ride into the sunset with the leading man!”

Theo was scratching his head, seemingly embarrassed for a moment. “Yeah, look, in this particular case… she has to sacrifice herself in order to liberate the people and reinstall democracy. As to the leading man… well.”

“So you’re telling me that they chase this poor girl through three books, send her on her personal learning curve, make her survive dangerous situations, make her suffer, make her err, make her doubt herself, make her cry, make her hope… and then her reward for all her adventures is _death_?”

Theo crossed his arms. “I think it is a very suitable ending. Divergent in the very sense of the word,” he said, his voice unusually priggish before he added in a more resigned tone: “Though the majority of the readership agreed with you and the final film was cancelled.”

“I’m sorry… no, I’m not. A writer who promises a certain type of story and then disappoints readers for a cheap twist does not know their job. How would the literary world look like if only Romeo and Juliet had had a better timing if Mr Rochester’s wife had returned to sanity or Mr Darcy been obliged to ditch Lizzie Bennet and marry Miss Bingham instead?” She looked up and froze when she saw the expression on Theo’s face.

“Say that again.” His voice was clear, ice-cold and cutting like a sharp blade. He was glaring at her like a wild animal that had finally found its prey and was only waiting for the best moment to strike and kill.

“I’m sorry?” Lotta said, faltering under his murderous gaze.

“Say. That. Again.” She saw a vein pulsating on his forehead.

“How would the literary world…”

“Not that. The last part.” He was clearly insane. She had little experience with insanity, but her good senses told her that for the moment and given their situation, it would be best to play along. So she repeated: “If Mr Darcy had been obliged to ditch Lizzie Bennet and marry Miss Bingham instead.”

He ran a hand through his hair and groaned. “I should have known you were not to be trusted.”

Lotta was staring at him, lost for words. She replayed the sentence in her head and still could not find any fault with it. On the contrary, she believed it to be a truth universally acknowledged that an Austen story had to have a happy ending.

Theo, who had been prowling around the room like a tiger behind bars, his facial expression also quite similar to that of an angry predator, stopped in front of her, looking down on her. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? You’re their submarine, trying to gain my confidence.”

Despite all his brooding, he had never struck her as mentally unstable. Yet why did he react like that, why was he so explosive at times and always when least expected? Again, Lotta felt as if the missing piece of the puzzle was nearly in her grasp. What to do now? Confess to some scheme she did not know anything about? Admit to being sent by “them”, whoever they were? Or simply tell the truth. “I never tried to gain your confidence,” she carefully said. “I tried to gain your cooperation and your sympathy.”

He shook his head again, murder in his eyes. “You seem to find it impossible to distinguish between the truth and your own wishful thinking.”

The disdainful look that followed his words made her finally lose her temper. “The truth! You wish to speak of the truth, Mr Theo Parker? The truth is that you are so blinded by your own self-importance that you would rather starve on tuna pizza than open up to me!”

“You speak out of turn!”

But she could not stop now. “Why should I expect any better from a third-rate actor whose main credits include a dead seducer and just another poor copy of a dystopia that was cancelled due to bad storytelling?”

“That is enough!” he shouted in a voice that made the ancient walls vibrate. “I have no need to justify myself to you,” he added, his face rigid with anger. Then he turned around to the wing chair, sat down, unfolded the newspaper (ripping it in the process) and visibly fuming, hid behind his favourite wall.

Lotta resisted the impulse to pull the paper away and confront him once more. That would only make a bad situation worse. She decided to pay a lengthy visit to the bathroom instead, slamming the door shut behind her with a pointed bang. Sitting down on the cold edge of the bathtub, she went through the day’s conversations again. In the morning, when she had suggested someone had stolen the part of Mr Darcy from him because of his age, he had reacted with another shutdown. That was annoying but harmless compared to the shouting match she had just endured.

And again it was Mr Darcy who had triggered him. How could that be? What did poor Mr Darcy, who wasn’t even a real person, have to do with Theo Parker going berserk? Or was she looking at it from the wrong angle? She stretched her arms, the billowing shirt sleeves making her feel like a bird again. A caged bird, though. Time to change the perspective.

She went into the bathtub and lay back, pretending it was full of hot water and lovely bubbles, with a box of chocolates by her side. That was better. Now her billowing shirt sleeves became the fins of a fish, and she could simply swim away.

What exactly had they said in the morning?

_“... you stole the part of Mr Darcy…”_

_“Why do you mention Mr Darcy?”_

_“… come to think of it, you are a bit too old for Mr Darcy…”_

_“Why do you want to cast me as an Austen hero?”_

An Austen hero. What if it was not about Mr Darcy but his creator? Jane, witty, clever, beloved Jane. Who knew so much about human nature and yet always made sure that her stories ended in perfect happiness.

_“… I may have alienated some people…”_

_“I think I’m done with period dramas.”_

_“If Mr Darcy had been obliged to ditch Lizzie Bennet and marry Miss Bingham instead.”_

An Austen hero’s journey. With a very suitable ending, but divergent in the very sense of the word. Not at all leading to perfect happiness.

“ _Oh mein Gott_ ,” she whispered. He had committed the worst possible crime in the history of British period drama. “He’s botched up an Austen adaptation and left the heroine without the leading man by her side.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your feedback and kudos. Here's a little spoiler for the next chapter: Its title features "Sanditon".


	8. Episode 8, or: Sanditon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your interesting speculations in the last chapter's comment section. Sorry, but no comment on that from my side. 
> 
> I tried to split this chapter into two but couldn’t figure out where to do it, so this is going to be a rather long read. I also smuggled in a line or two from Sherlock (which gave me an excellent reason to watch my favourite scene from Sherlock for the millionth time). Anyway, I’ll stop babbling now. Here we go:

_Everything is going to be fine in the end. If it's not fine, it's not the end._ (Oscar Wilde)

**_Previously…_ **

_“… I may have alienated some people…”_

_“I think I’m done with period dramas.”_

_“If Mr Darcy had been obliged to ditch Lizzie Bennet and marry Miss Bingham instead.”_

An Austen hero’s journey. With a very suitable ending, but divergent in the very sense of the word. Not at all leading to perfect happiness.

_“Oh mein Gott_ ,” she whispered. He had committed the worst possible crime in the history of British period drama. “He’s botched up an Austen adaptation and left the heroine without the leading man by her side.”

***

Now that she had solved the conundrum, Lotta felt strangely shy. She did not know what to do next: leave the bathroom, confront Theo and tell him that she knew what he had done? That she did not judge him, would not berate him, just wanted to know more of the details: Who was the poor Regency lady out there in the Austen universe that was deprived of her perfect happiness? And, as important as who: why? Why would anyone do such a thing? It made no sense, absolutely no sense at all. And by the way, yes, she _would_ judge him, and she _would_ berate him. And then try to find an answer to the most crucial question of all: What did all that have to do with them being here?

She could not stay in the bathroom forever, though she did stay on for quite a while, leaning her buzzing head on the rim of the tub and wishing she were a fish indeed and could simply swim away. More details came to her mind… the clothes (“Wrong century!”)… the facts he knew about the social and horticultural history of pineapples… the dance. The dance! The dance that was more like… like making love than like dancing. He had danced like that with a real Austen heroine and then ditched her? That went beyond anyone’s imagination. What an absolute scoundrel! Which writer, which director, which producer in their right mind would agree to such a storyline?

A sharp knock on the door brought her back to reality. “Can I use the bathroom?” she heard Theo say. He did not sound angry anymore but exhausted, like herself, and maybe a little sad. She opened the door, let him in without looking at him, and walked out herself. Then she took his seat in the wing chair and read the Times once more without really reading it, her thoughts drifting away again. The bathroom door remained locked. Theo took his time as well, probably as much in need of privacy as she was. Her anger against him had totally subsided. He was a good man at heart, she had known that since the last night – if not before. And a good man should not be condemned for one terrible mistake.

He only came out of the bathroom when Mrs Griffiths and Creepy Gun Guy made their appearance with their dinner. “I’m off to London in a wink,” their jailer said. “Would not want to miss the opening night at the Garrick Theatre – not for the world. It’s received so much unexpected publicity over the last few days!”

“You are very talkative tonight, Mrs Griffiths,” Lotta said.

“While you two seem to be a rather dreary lot. Did you not enjoy your philosophical discussion?”

“I did,” Lotta said. “It gave me quite a lot to think about.”

“It was not meant to make _you_ think, _Fräulein_. – Anyway. Tonight you’re in for a treat.” Lotta glanced at the boxes with the familiar imprint of Dantino’s Pizza Express.

“You finally got me my avocado sandwich?”

“No. But since I’ll be enjoying myself at the premiere party tonight, I thought I’d include some entertainment for you as well. – Oh. And don’t plan any mischief while I’m out having fun. You are still being watched.” She pointed first at the camera in the corner under the ceiling and then at Creepy Gun Guy. “Bye, my darlings.”

“Right,” Lotta said when their jailers had locked them in again. “Shall we have a look at tonight’s choice? My guess is tuna – by the way, did I ever tell you that in Germany, there is an active campaign for the introduction of fishfinger pizza?” She was babbling away, trying to cover her nervousness.

Theo did not seem to be interested in fishfinger pizza. He remained where he was, standing by the foot of the bed, silent, his hands shoved into his pockets, his eyes wandering around the room. This must be as difficult for him as it is for me, Lotta thought. Probably even more so. She opened the first box. “Tuna.” And the second. “Imagine what? It’s tuna. Oh. And… Oh dear. I hate that woman’s sense of humour.”

Theo finally looked up. “What is it?”

“The entertainment she promised us. It’s a riddle, written with a sharpie inside the lid.” She opened the box a little further so he could see the writing as well. “Doesn’t make any sense though. _Does Babington have a first name? What was in Georgiana’s painting? Tongue or pie?_ ”

If Theo knew the answers, he did not bother to share them. With one big stride, he was by her side, took the box out of her hands and with full force flung it against the wall. The second box followed just moments later, accompanied by a murderous growl.

Lotta stared at the wall, at the tuna pieces, onion rings and tomato sauce running slowly down the white wallpaper, creating a bizarre pattern on their downward journey. There went her dinner. When she spoke, she was surprised by the calmness in her voice. “I take it you have a very good reason for this,” she said and handed him the empty pizza box that had landed at her feet.

“That damned, stupid… effing series,” he exploded, hurling the box at the wall again. “This bloody curse of my life!”

“Yes,” Lotta said and handed him the other box as well.

“I’ll be damned if I fall for this!” he cried when the second box went flying again.

“Sure,” Lotta said. “It’s only… I don’t care much for tuna pizza, but that was our dinner.”

He slowly sank down against the wall, breathing heavily, shaking his head and then looking up to her as if seeing her for the first time. His anger had subsided, his dark eyes were large and shiny like a little puppy’s. “You really have no idea at all what all this is about, do you?” he said, his voice calm and sad.

Lotta shrugged her shoulders. She had a vague idea, yet there were so many blanks left to be filled in the story she had concocted in the bathroom.

He rested his elbows on his knees and hid his head in his hands. He looked incredibly young and vulnerable now, and she had to suppress the urge to walk over and stroke his head as she would have done if he were one of her brothers. All he needed was time, she knew that from her brothers as well: time to fight his pride, time to understand that he had found a sympathetic listener, time to see that it was best to come clear once and for all, however painful it was. Finally, he looked up.

“Sanditon,” he said. “It’s all about Sanditon.”

Lotta nodded. This was a beginning. When nothing else came, she asked: “Is Sanditon a character you once played?”

“No, no, a miniseries. And what a miniseries!” He gave her a sad smile, remorse written all over his face. It was still a very handsome face, but she was not going to tell him that. “I am amazed you have never heard of it, given that you are such an enthusiast when it comes to British period drama.”

“That would be my great aunt, the former English teacher. I’m merely a labourer, fixing her ancient DVD player, serving the tea and keeping her company. Personally, I’m more into German poetry. _Der Harfenspieler_ , do you know that? It’s so sad and so beautiful… I’m sorry, I’m talking too much again. You were going to tell me about Sanditon.”

“Yes. Sanditon.” There was something solemn about the way he said the name. “Jane Austen’s unfinished novel. Did you know that?”

Lotta shook her head. And since it was obviously going to be a long story, she sat down next to him in the middle of the tuna debris, leaned her back against the wall and listened.

“She put down the pen a few months before she died, eleven chapters in. It is different from all her other novels, being set in an imaginary seaside resort… Sanditon. There are no notes, no hints about where she intended to take the story. _My_ part… Sidney…”

“Sidney,” Lotta repeated as if tasting the name like an old wine. She liked it. Somewhat unusual for a Regency hero, though. A bit mysterious, maybe even dangerous.

“Sidney. He’s barely introduced when the fragment ends. - So the production company and the writers decided to take a very modern and unconventional approach to what little material they had.”

“Unconventional as in _lots of nudity and scenes not suitable for audiences of 12 years and younger_?”

He cast her a side glance. “Are you sure you haven’t watched it?”

“Absolutely. I would remember my aunt freaking out about such a disrespectful adaptation.”

“Disrespectful? How can you judge it if you haven’t even seen it?”

“I’m not judging the adaptation. I’m judging by your way of talking about it that something went massively, massively wrong with the storyline.”

He sighed. “You are very perceptive. But then, you have always been, from the very beginning.” Coming from him, she decided she would own this as the greatest compliment imaginable. But she did not expand on it: This was not about her but about Sanditon.

He sighed once more, than looked up, his eyes travelling to some distant place where she could not follow. “It was a fantastic production. Wonderful cast, an extraordinary mix of new and established faces, beautiful costumes, great eye for tiny details, many bows to other Austen adaptations, very imaginative and unique sets. The whole set up had a very natural look, not as polished and perfect as… let’s say Downton where no hair is ever to be found out of place. I went with a four day’s beard for most of the filming and the leading lady… well, from the beginning to the very end, they made her look like a girl who had just come back from a cricket match on the beach. Fresh and unadorned. We also did quite a lot of stuff outdoors, and it really shows.”

“Wait wait wait wait… was that when you were dumped into the sea in midwinter?”

“Emerged,” he corrected with some dignity. “I _emerged_ from the sea.”

“Probably not as Poseidon, wearing a trident and a beard of seaweed?”

“No. Not wearing anything at all.”

“Oh.” Lotta felt herself blush at the sheer idea. As always, she took to words for a cover: “Stealing the show from Mr Darcy, weren’t you? Now that is of course unforgivable.” He gave her a sad smile.

“I’d say we took Austen to the twenty-first century.”

“Yes, but did you ask her characters whether they wanted to go time travelling? – And what happened to the storyline? Did your Sidney catch a cold in the sea and die of pneumonia before he could ask the question?”

“No, I… that is, Sidney… well, there was a lot of back and forth with the heroine – Miss Heywood, that is. First impressions gone wrong, misunderstandings in abundance, real and perceived scoundrels, balls and picnics… you know the drill. And when we finally had a chance at happiness, I had to… Sidney, that is – Sidney had to save his family from ruin by marrying a rich widow instead of Miss Heywood.”

“What?” Lotta was staring at him, confident that she had misheard him.

He gave her a somewhat smug look before explaining in a rather priggish tone: “As I said. We decided on a modern and unconventional approach.”

“But leaving the hero and the heroine heartbroken is not modern and unconventional. It’s… “ She was searching for the right word. “It’s disrespectful! To both Jane and the audience. How can you end a beautiful production on such a cheap twist?”

“It wasn’t a cheap twist. It was carefully built up. We had one of the best scriptwriters…”

“Who apparently doesn’t understand the difference between a cheap twist and a brilliant twist. But you of all people should know!”

“I?”

“The man who died in Lady Mary’s bed? Totally unexpected, totally shocking and very clever because it influenced so many other Downton storylines. And apart from that – I’m sorry to say that, but as a viewer, we had not gotten to know your Turkish diplomat well enough to shed many tears about your demise. _That_ was a brilliant twist. What you are telling me right now is just horrible. – So, how did the audience react?”

“They hated it. What was left of the audience. Many of them had fled after the… ahem… nudity and… the… er… well.”

“The what?” His ears and cheeks had gone delightfully pink, and even though Lotta had a vague idea of what he was trying not to say, she could not help but nudge him on.

“Well, there was a certain act performed in the first episode, and that put many viewers off. The more conservative Austen purists, I would assume.” Lotta was staring at him in total disbelief. She had really come to value him as a well-read and intelligent partner during their many conversations, and yet, in this very moment, she absolutely doubted his soundness of mind.

“So let me sum this up. You take the unfinished work of one of England’s most iconic and beloved writers, give it a modern make-over, and turn it into something the original author would not recognise. Then you add some naked bottoms and a little soft-porn, end it with an awful twist that leaves everyone in tears – and you still wonder why, to quote yourself, you _might have alienated some people_?”

“That is a very unfavourable summary.” His expression was still smug, but he did not look at her but at some spot on the opposite wall. “I believe it’s time to think out of the box. Austen’s times were not at all about glossy balls and happy picnics. Her England was a very controversial place, and we were trying to portray that.”

“Yes, but Austen wasn’t. If you sell it as an Austen adaptation, it has to be glossy balls and happy picnics and billowing shirtsleeves and a happy ending. If you want a more realistic take on history, watch a documentary or write a new drama, but don’t label it Austen if it ends in tears. Why would anyone do such an awful thing?”

“Are you really that naïve?”

“I would sooner be naïve than insensible to the heritage of an author so beloved and popular even two hundred years after her death,” Lotta said with as much determination in her voice as in her face.

Theo sighed deeply. “The production company decided to let it end on a cliff-hanger so we could come back for a second season. Profit a little more from it. Maybe even do a season three or four.”

“A second season,” she echoed. This was like glancing into a parallel universe. “I have never heard of a second season for an Austen adaptation. Or have I missed _Pride and Prejudice Season Two – Miss Bingham’s Revenge_?”

“It’s a question of financing. Developing a storyline and characters, the whole filming process, post-production… that is extremely costly. Plus the marketing! So if you have one show well established, you milk the cow as long and as much as possible. That’s much easier than creating a new show. As an avid follower of Downton Abbey, you should know that.”

“And I guess after that horrible ending there was a certain demand for a second season.”

“There was. There still is.”

“But now you’re in London playing theatre instead of being dumped into the sea again, however much you deserve it. So something tells me things did not go according to plan.”

“No.”

“Because your _modern and unconventional approach_ scared too many viewers away?”

“It was for a number of reasons. Bad scheduling, bad marketing. Bad communications. Target group nearly exclusively female. Terrible social media concept. All that led to bad viewing figures. However, those who stayed on beyond episode two loved the series because… you will watch it yourself one day very soon, and then you’ll understand.”

I’m not going to watch it, Lotta thought. I don’t want my heart broken by a television show. But she did not tell him. Theo continued: “Unfortunately, after the last episode was aired in the UK, viewers where left in limbo for months on end. _We_ knew very early on that there would be no season two, but you are not allowed to tell when a show is still to be aired abroad, especially on the US market. So the social media strategy was to keep hope alive. And with every country that picked up the show, the number of devastated viewers grew. Until the day it was cancelled.”

Lotta’s head was spinning. This was extraordinary. How could intelligent people be that stupid? After a while she said: “I can’t believe you managed to refute Heraclitus so easily.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“ _A man cannot step into the same river twice_? And yet here you are: first leaving the Divergent series unfinished with a horrible ending no-one likes, then stepping away from Sanditon, leaving it unfinished with a horrible ending no-one likes. I hate to agree with our jailer, but she did say something about your appalling lack of judgement.”

“You know, it’s not only the fans who are suffering,” he said, showing the large-eyed little-puppy-expression again.

“Yes,” Lotta said without hiding her sarcasm. “I can see you suffer as well. Must be terrible being the one who won the wet-shirt-contest against Mr Darcy.”

“Right now I’m being reduced to a naked bum on Tumblr.”

“You might have thought of that before you agreed to be dumped into the sea in the first place,” Lotta said and made a mental note to research Theo Parker on Tumblr as soon as she got out of this rabbit hole.

“ _Emerge_ ,” he corrected. “I emerged from the sea.”

“I think you deserve being dumped in again. The question is: What does Sanditon gone wrong have to do with us being here?”

“Isn’t that obvious? The fan community is small but strong. They went berserk when the show was cancelled.”

“You are not seriously telling me that Mrs Griffiths is a deranged superfan who is going to keep us here until she gets her happy ending in season two.”

“That’s the only explanation that makes any sense to me.”

Lotta thought about this. Then she shook her head. “No.”

“Sorry?”

“I said no. Good shot, but: no. You are getting carried away. You’re enjoying being yourself too much, Theo Parker. _It is very often nothing but our own vanity that deceives us,_ as my aunt likes to quote _._ ”

“What do you mean?”

“Why am I here?”

“Because you’re the collateral damage. The one who walked into a kidnapping scene.”

“Right. The one who has never heard of Sanditon before, who does not know anything about naked bums on Tumblr and would not have recognised you if we had bumped into each other ten seconds later in St Martin’s Lane. – So, if our keeper is a monstrously insane superfan of yours, why am I still here? Why am I allowed to stay here with you, talk to you, to wear the clothes intended for you, even to share the same bed – the same blanket? Why am I living any fangirl's dream?” She shook her head, not waiting for an answer. “This whole Sanditon set up here was meant to mislead you from the very beginning. This is not about a botched Austen adaptation, and it is not about you either. No true fan, however disappointed, would do this to you and to the reputation of Sanditon.”

He was scratching his head, staring at her sheepishly. “You said something this afternoon about me being blinded by self-importance,” he finally said.

“But I will also say that you’re capable of insight and a change of perspective. - What was the name of your understudy again?”

“Cory Franklin. I told you he is a friend. Unreliable, more on Instagram than in the real world, but a friend.”

“I’m sure he is. And yet he’s the one on stage at the Garrick Theatre right now with Mrs Griffiths watching.”

“He’d never do such a thing!”

“Of course, he wouldn’t. But does he have any influence on what a deranged follower of his might do to see him shine?”

“Oh, my God.” Theo shook his head. “That is completely insane. - And yet it makes more sense than anything we have discussed over the last few days,” he added after some seconds of consideration. “You’re a genius, Lotta.”

“No, I’m not. You were blinded by your guilty conscience regarding Sanditon, and Mrs Griffiths was very clever in luring you on. Otherwise, you would have seen it days ago. - You’re an intelligent person, for all I know,” she added with a little smile. “Now some big questions remain of course: How can we work this into tomorrow’s court circular? What are we going to eat tonight? And, the most pressing conundrum of them all: who is Babington and does he have a first name?”

She had hoped to ease matters by inserting a light note, but Theo did not react. Instead, he put his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands, lost in his own world for a long while. When he finally lifted his head, his large dark eyes made him look like a vulnerable puppy again. “Lotta,” he asked. “Would you give me a hug? A comforting hug between friends?”

“Of course,” she said, sounding much more confident than she felt. His arms came around her, his chin resting on her shoulder, his stubbly cheek touching hers. For once she did not feel the need to prattle away to cover her nervousness. For once it felt right to be close to each other, to garner warmth and strength from each other, to think and feel and know that they were not alone.

“Thank you,” he finally said, brushing her hair aside and leaning back. She gave him a shy smile.

“Thank _you_.”

“If I say _I’m sorry_ next we can continue this game until tomorrow morning,” he said.

“Then I’ll suggest something more practical,” she replied. “There seem to have been two cases of the rare self-imploding tuna pizza in this room lately. Let’s clear up the mess.”

“You’re right. Let’s do that.” He came upon his feet and with a smile held out his hand to her to help her up. How simple and light everything suddenly felt now that the great mystery was solved. Sanditon! Lotta liked the sound of it. It made her think of a summer day by the sea, of sunlight breaking on the waves, of sand sticking to her bare feet and a gentle breeze ruffling her hair. And of course, thinking of a summer day by the sea made plucking tuna debris from the wall so much more agreeable.

“I promise I’ll never make such a mess again,” Theo said. “Even if they feed us tuna pizza until Christmas.”

“I’m glad to hear it. But I’m optimistic we’ll be done long before Christmas. Mrs Griffiths only needs you out of the way for as long as you were supposed to appear on stage.”

“That would be the end of May then.”

“Less than three months. Brilliant. We should manage that long in… well, let’s pretend this is a quarantine.”

“This place would not be my choice for a quarantine.”

“I agree, the establishment still shows a very tragic lack of the most basic amenities and the manager is in for a real lecture if I ever get hold of his sad person. On the other hand, however, our very circumstances can be seen as a metaphor for the emptiness of our beings.”

“What?” He was staring at her, complete incomprehension in his shining eyes.

“No… no, don’t interrupt me. Just have a look around … ignore the stains of pizza sauce, though … here we are withdrawn from a world that is rotating ever faster… and in here, we are reduced to a rather simple lifestyle… and the monotony of our daily routine … the power of the silence around us… the lack of food… ”

“Lotta…” He was suppressing a giggle now.

“… all that will, in due time, make us understand who we are, what we are and why we are and therewith guide us back to the most basic instinct of human life: survival. - I fear we might end up eating each other.”

He curled up beside her in laughter. “Lotta … I thought you expected _me_ to hold the most fascinating monologue on the power of loneliness. You said so once.”

She gave a shrug. “Another disappointment. Though you seem to remember all my words. Maybe not a disappointment at all.” And in this very moment, the lights went off and left them in complete darkness.

For a few seconds, they were both too surprised to say anything at all. When the lights did not come back, and no sound was heard apart from the cry of a night bird outside, Lotta whispered: “Do you think this is a power cut?”

“I have no idea,” Theo whispered back.

“Or is this a special unit of the British police force preparing our liberation?”

“I should hope so… but then, maybe I have read too many scripts for bad crime movies. – Either way, we best move and try to hide between the bed and the wing chair,” he added.

“OK.” Lotta started scuttling over to where the wing chair was looming in the darkness. “Ouch!” Her head had bumped into the metal frame of the bed.

“Are you alright?” Theo said. “Here, take my hand.”

She reached into the darkness, found his hand, huddled next to him in the space between the bed and the chair and listened. The building was still filled with silence, the only thing she heard was Theo’s steady breathing by her side. After what seemed to be an endless amount of time, he whispered: “If that special unit was ever here, they must have gone on a break.”

“Maybe it was a power cut. I can very well imagine Mrs Griffiths not paying the bill. – But look at that.” She pointed at the camera under the ceiling in the corner of the room. “The red light is still on. No power cut then. Maybe she used a timer because she’s having her great night out and cannot wish us a good night in person.”

“I would have expected Creepy Gun Guy to step in. Anyway. It’s dark, it’s cold, we don’t have anything to eat, and this place is not famous for its evening entertainment program. I suggest an early night. Let’s try to sleep.”

“Yes,” Lotta agreed, though sleep, she feared, would be even more difficult to come by tonight than on any of the previous nights. She toddled over to the bathroom for some personal hygiene, stumbled over a pizza box on her way back in the darkness and tried to make herself comfortable in the bed while she heard Theo run the water next door. Not being handcuffed was very liberating and strangely restricting at the same time. With the handcuffs, it was at least clear where her place was. Without it was not. Did she still have to stay on the very left side of the bed? Or could she perhaps move a little further to the centre? And what about the blanket? She tried to spread it evenly over the mattress – which was rather difficult given the total darkness that surrounded her – but when Theo returned from the bathroom, he pulled it over to his side with one quick move. However, this time she held on tight, making him lose his balance and tumble onto the bed next to her.

“You know,” she said, “when we get out of this, I am going to tell the world that the great Theo Parker is a heartless scoundrel who not only steals a happy ending from an Austen heroine but also a warming blanket from a fellow sufferer.”

She heard him chuckle somewhere close to her head. “My lawyer is a tough dog. He will make sure you receive a good amount of money for not spreading fake news. For of course it’s you who has been stealing this blanket from me every single night since Monday.”

“What? You’ll pay me for not saying something that isn’t true anyway?”

“Yes,” he said and used her moment of irritation to seize the blanket from her.

“You’re confusing me on purpose!” she cried but stopped when Theo snuggled down next to her and started to gently wrap them both into the blanket. “There,” he said, brushing her hair aside and placing his hand on her shoulder. “That’s the purpose of a shared blanket.”

“Yes,” she whispered, trying to breathe evenly and to get her heartbeat under control. “Thank you for enlightening me.”

“My pleasure. - You smell of tuna,” he added after a moment.

“Ever so charming, Mr Parker. Do you wish me to return the compliment?”

“No, thank you, _Fräulein_. After four days in the same clothes and a shower of tuna debris, I fear I smell like a rotten fish. - Can I ask you something?

“Can I ask you something first?” she said, desperate to move the conversation to a different direction, mostly because despite a faint smell of tuna, he did not remind her of a rotten fish at all.

“Alright. Ladies first.”

“Why did you not tell me about Sanditon before?”

“I didn’t trust you. And when I did… maybe I felt a bit ashamed.”

“Ashamed?”

“Because of the way it ended. We were so arrogant… so overconfident we didn’t even think of filming an alternative ending in case there would be no season two.”

“That’s what you do in the film industry? You have a different ending in store in case the audience doesn’t like the original one?”

“Occasionally. If the financial success of the project depends on it. – Think of Pretty Woman. It wasn’t meant to end happily in the first script, yet on screen it does.” Lotta thought about this for a few moments. Interchangeable endings! If only that worked in reality as well.

“Can I ask you something else?”

“But that’s your last question. After that, it’s fifty pence per answer.”

“I can’t afford that. - Who’s Babington?”

“He’s Sidney’s friend. His best friend, I suppose. A bit of a romantic as well.

“And what’s that thing about his first name?”

“He doesn’t have a first name. It’s one of the many Sanditon conundrums.”

“Poor chap.”

“Not at all. Babbers is a lord, and in the end, he gets to marry the lady of his heart. Even without a first name.”

“Is that legally possible?”

He chuckled, tickling her ear as a side effect. “Now that you mention it: probably not. Not even in Austenland.”

“A missing happy ending, an invalid marriage. Plenty of material for a season two.” Lotta sighed overdramatically. “Alas, it’s not meant to be.”

“Don’t rub salt into the wound,” Theo said. “Now it’s my turn,” he added, and she suspected that now _he_ was desperate to move the conversation to a different direction. “Tell me about the poem you said you liked.”

“ _Der Harfenspieler?”_ She turned around, suddenly finding it very important to face him, even though he was not much more than a shadow in the dark. His hand remained on her arm, and she decided that this was an excellent opportunity to inconspicuously place her own hand on his arm. “Basically, it’s about guilt – how you cannot escape what you have done but that it’s facing your guilt that makes your personality grow, though it’s a painful process. – Well, that’s the short version. I wrote a full essay on it during my studies.”

“Sounds a bit like Sidney’s storyline for season two.”

“No. It applies to most of us, actually. But Goethe was so much more eloquent at expressing himself than we are.”

“You are very eloquent at expressing yourself,” he softly said and gathered her a little closer so that her head came to rest on his shoulder.

“I know I’m inclined to talk too much,” she whispered. “Always happens when I’m nervous. It’s a bit like a spell. As long as I talk, bad things cannot touch me.”

“So you’re always talking because you’re afraid of me?” She bit her tongue. She was too tired, too exhausted, too drained to go through a conversation that would have been difficult even with a clear mind.

“I’m afraid of the situation we are stuck in. I’m not afraid of you.”

There was no reply from him apart from his steady breathing and the gentle rhythm of his heartbeat under her ear. After a while and with a little sigh, he clasped his arms around her a little tighter. Lotta thought that she could stay like this for the whole night, until the end of May or for the rest of her life and never regret it. And then she finally fell asleep.

*

She found herself walking her father’s fields again, taking in the fresh and salty smell of the not too distant Baltic Sea, enjoying the sunbeams that stroke her face, the gentle breeze that played in her lose hair. The palms of her hands danced over the swaying tops of the ripe fields of grain, and in her heart, she felt a happiness, a joy at being alive that she had nearly forgotten existed.

Down the path, the tracks entered a small copse. Now a figure stepped out of the shadow of the trees, a blurred figure, but somehow familiar, waving at her as if inviting her. She started waving back, hastening now, for even though his face was still in the dark, the features were clear and familiar to her. He was here! It was only when he turned around into the sunlight that she saw his the bloodstain on his shirt and the deadly paleness of his face, and she sat up bolt right in bed, wide awake and vaguely aware that something was wrong.

There was a noise, and it was not a bored night owl crying for company. There was a noise in the house, a sound of feet running and doors banging. “Theo,” she whispered, shaking him by the shoulder, trying to wake him up. “Theo!” - but as always, he was lost somewhere in a deep sleep. When she said his name for the third time, the door sprang open with a loud bang, and the light went on, blinding Lotta for a split second. “Go away,” Theo groaned in his sleep, pulled the blanket away from her and over his face and slept on.

Lotta, blinking at the glaring light, saw Mrs Griffiths standing at the foot of the bed, pointing the gun at them. And behind her, in the door frame, two masked members of the long-expected British police force appeared, holding their guns at Mrs Griffiths. So this is what it is like to wake up in a bad crime movie, Lotta thought. She even had time to add: _An unbelievably bad crime movie_ , before one of the masked policemen said: “Put down the weapon. It’s over.”

“This is my play,” Mrs Griffiths said with a cool and levelled voice. “I decide when and how it’s over.” She moved as if in slow motion, a steady hand on the gun, and Lotta, understanding what she was about to do, cried “No!” and flung herself over Theo’s sleeping body when the whole world exploded inside and around her. Everything went black as if someone had switched off the light again, and she found herself wandering aimlessly in the dark until somewhere in the distance, the sun started rising. As she stepped into the bright light, she realised that she was walking towards the copse once more. The blurred figure was there, waiting for her, waving at her, and when the sunbeams touched the figure’s face, it was her mother’s, intact, unscathed and smiling, and her mother held out her arms to her and drew her into her warm, safe and loving embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re in shock now: so was I. I didn’t expect things to play out like that, they just evolved. However, I'm still a firm believer in the wisdom of Jane Austen: "My characters shall have, after a little trouble, all that they desire" so please don’t despair, even if for the moment, the trouble only seems to be getting worse. Chapter 9 and 10 are to follow tomorrow.
> 
> Off-topic: The story about hungry Germans campaigning for fishfinger pizza is true. Dr Oetker acted on public demand and introduced Pizza Bastoncini di Pesce on April 1st.  
> https://twitter.com/droetkerpizzade/status/1245250764114665477


	9. Befuddled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thank you for your comments. That was quite a cliffhanger, I agree. Fortunately, I am not a greedy and heartless TV executive fishing for a second season, so I am not going to leave you hanging from the cliff for too long.

Beep.

Beep. Beep!

Beep. Beeeep!

Beep. Beeeep!

Beep.

She listened to the sound, trying to figure out what it was. In a strange way, it reminded her of a piece of music she had heard recently. It must have been in a western movie. Cowboys walking into town, taking the measure of the place.

Beep.

Beep. Beep!

No. No music. Too artificial, come to think of it. This was more of a technical sound.

Beep. Beeeep!

Beep. Beeeep!

So what was it? She realised that in order to find out, she would have to open her eyes. Excellent, yet simple idea. Then why was it so difficult to execute?

Beep.

She tried to blink. Her eyelids felt heavy as if weighed down with lead. Had she been out partying hard last night? Not as far as she remembered, but she _did_ remember something about tuna pizza. “Look at that, doctor,” an excited high-pitched English voice said. “I think she’s waking up.”

“You’re right”, a male voice with a heavy eastern European accent replied. “Got and get her brother. A familiar face will do her good.”

Her brother. _My_ brother, she deducted. Do I have a brother?

She was not sure, but she was sure all this had to do something with an avocado sandwich. Or was it tuna pizza? Why tuna pizza again? Her head was spinning. And why was everyone speaking English?

Beep.

Beep. Beep!

No cowboys. No. It was not cowboys entering the town, it was Mr Darcy, shedding his wet shirt. Though he did not look like Mr Darcy at all.

Beep. Beeeep!

“Lotta!” Now that was a familiar voice. She opened her eyes and saw Alex sitting by her side. Of course, she had a brother. Five, actually, plus a father. Her eldest brother was here, holding her hand and wiping a tear from his cheek. “Lotta,” he repeated solemnly, and that was very strange because neither her father nor her brothers were much given to showing emotions.

“Ah, my dear young lady, you have had a narrow escape here,” the doctor with the accent said. “But now we can happily welcome you back to the world of the living. I am Doctor Liski, and it is my professional duty and personal honour to rear you back into full health.”

“I… I…” She tried to move and then realised that she could not because a) she was in a hospital bed, connected to tubes, infusions and a machine giving a “beep” every few moments, and b) her left shoulder was stuffed into something like a corset, holding her down.

“Don’t speak if it is too hard, my dear. – Do you remember what has happened?”

Why was he asking her questions if he did not expect her to answer? She did not remember what had happened, but she had a vague idea that this was about tuna pizza, a wet-shirt-contest and Mr Darcy. No, not Mr Darcy. His name was Sidney.

“You are in the Conquest Hospital in St. Leonards,” the doctor said. “You have been shot into the shoulder. Twice. You have lost a very worrying amount of blood and undergone a long surgery, during which you fell into a coma. But you are a strong and healthy young person, so there is every hope that you will recover.”

She looked at her brother for an explanation. All of this made no sense at all, especially if it was about a wet-shirt-contest. But Alex just gave her an unusually loving smile, briefly touched her arm, and said that he was going outside to call their father and give him the good news that she was awake.

With her brother gone, she concentrated on the doctor again who ran various tests until he declared that apart from the shoulder she was doing fine and would, in due course, regain the strength to talk and communicate. A nurse appeared, a big and happy smile on her round face, her blue eyes gleaming with joy. “So you have woken up!” she beamed, stroking Lotta’s hand. “I knew you would make it! You’re a fighter, aren’t you? Such a strong constitution! Enviable. I’ll be looking after you, and that’s so exciting! – I’m Di, by the way,” she added, which answered Lotta’s unspoken question whether they had met before.

“Now please, nurse. Don’t overexert our young heroine,” Doctor Liski said. “Di will take a little care of you, my dear, and when you feel better, we will have another chat.”

 _A little care_ meant that the nurse cleaned her up, changed her gown, the infusion and the bandages on her shoulder, all the while smiling lovingly and cheerfully at her and chatting away about nothing. It was only when Di finished her tasks that she touched her hand and said: “I can’t believe that you actually saved our Sidney’s life.”

She had saved Sidney’s life? That was good news. She was not sure who Sidney was, but she was sure that his name was not Sidney.

“I wish you could tell me everything about it,” the nurse said. “But I’m afraid his lawyers will muzzle you as soon as they hear that you are awake. – Anyway, we will make the best of it, won’t we?”

 _Lawyers? Muzzle her?_ Lotta closed her eyes. Life had been so much easier before when she had walked the fields arm in arm with her mother in the glaring sunshine of an endless summer day.

Alex came back, showing her his phone with a video message from their family. She saw her father and her younger brothers, seated around the kitchen table, her father saying how happy he was, and how proud he was of her, and then wiping a tear from his eye, while the twins shouted that she was the coolest tiger in the cage. Then everyone started to speak at the same time in an attempt to cover their emotions.

“That’s sweet,” Nurse Di said. “What a lovely family you have! – Now, Alex, I suggest you lay down and get a little rest. – He’s been with you since Saturday, you know. And today is Tuesday,” she added in response to Lotta’s questioning look.

“No,” Alex said, positioning himself next to the bed as if he was a security guard. “I stay here.”

“Knock knock!” Doctor Liski returned, two men in suits in tow. They were both in their thirties, well-groomed, and looked somehow official. “I told them it is too early, but these gentlemen insist on seeing you, my dear. If you do not feel comfortable receiving them, give me a hint, and I shall suspend the meeting immediately.”

Lotta tried to give a shrug, realising only too late that her left shoulder would not cooperate. A sharp pain ran through her arm.

“Miss Wilms,” one of the men said, presenting his identification. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Robertson from Scotland Yard, and this is Detective Sergeant Winter. We understand that you have been through difficult times, and as the doctor says if you don’t feel up to it, we will stop this interview immediately. However, it is particularly important for us to obtain certain information from you as quickly and as unfiltered as possible.”

Alex stood up; his arms crossed in front of him. Security guard indeed. “She doesn’t speak.”

“We know that, Mr Wilms,” the DCI said. “A nod or shaking your head will do. Are you feeling up to that, Miss Wilms?”

Lotta nodded. She doubted she would be of any help to anyone, given the fact that she was in a state of total befuddlement, but she wanted to get over with things as quickly as possible.

“Thank you.” The DCI came a little closer, and the sergeant handed him three photographs. “Have you ever seen this woman before?” He showed her the picture of a petite blonde, maybe a little older than herself, with blue eyes and porcelain skin. A doll-like beauty, though there was something around her mouth that suggested that this doll had claws instead of fingers on her hands. Lotta had never seen her. She shook her head.

“And this man?” The next picture was a black and white shot, grainy and blurred as if cut from a surveillance camera: a young man with a slightly receding hairline that was covered by a mass of neatly arranged blond curls. His features were certainly regular and handsome, yet there was something about him that made Lotta feel deeply uncomfortable. Maybe it was the cold stare of his eyes that made her think of callousness. Again she shook her head. The inspector and his sergeant exchanged a look. “And this one?”

Lotta shrank back. This one she knew. It was a high quality, professional shot of a terribly handsome dark-eyed man with short dark curls and full lips. A film star, by his looks. She tried to remember which film she had seen him in but could not place him. It had to do something with a dead man in a woman’s bed. Or had he been dumped into the sea? A crime movie then. Bad crime movie, probably. But if it was a crime movie then why had she been thinking about Mr Darcy before? And who was this Sidney-person whose life she had allegedly saved?

“Do you know him?” the DCI asked once more. She looked at the picture again. The handsome man was showing a serious, nearly grim expression, his mouth rigidly set, his eyebrows curling dramatically as if deep in thought.

 _A pretty poster-boy constantly posing as Mr Rochester in order to pretend there was some depth to the shallowness,_ she heard herself say. And the man in the picture answered: _There may be some value in what you say…_ His voice was deep and full and sent a shiver down her spine.

“Miss Wilms?” the DCI asked.

“I think it is better we end this charade now,” the doctor said. “You can see how distressed she is.” But Lotta shook her head. She did not want to stop now. It was out there, in the mist of her memory, just one step away. She could hear it, sense it, nearly grasp it. Solve the conundrum. The conundrum. The tuna pizza had to do with it and a wet-shirt-contest, but also a dance and a sailing trip and a blanket that was always too short. And Mr Darcy and Mr Rochester and the man who had died in Lady Mary’s bed. That was him. Sidney. Though he was not dead because she had saved his life and his name was not Sidney but… “Theo!”

“Well done, Miss Wilms.” The DCI smiled at her. “You know him.”

“Yes, of course, he is…” And then it all came back to her. The yard in St Martin’s Lane, the white van. The room, the court circular, the handcuffs, the tuna pizza hitting the wall. Sanditon. Mrs Griffiths and Creepy Gun Guy. With her free hand, she reached for the two other pictures. “Are they…”

The DCI nodded. “We have every reason to believe that they are the people who did this to you. It is very important that you tell us everything you remember.”

“This is too much for the patient. I must insist,” the doctor said, but Lotta shook her head even though it made her feel dizzy again.

“Please. How is he? Theo?”

“He’s fine,” the DCI said with a friendly smile. “Just a swollen nose – apparently you hit him with your head when you took the two bullets meant for him.”

At the foot of the bed, Nurse Di sniffled so noisily that everyone turned their heads at her. “Sorry,” she murmured. “Such bravery!”

“Right.” DCI Robertson looked at Lotta again. Captivating green eyes, she realised, but not as beautiful as… “Do you feel strong enough to continue?”

She wanted to get over with it. “Can my brother stay with me?”

“If you want him to. Anytime you feel too exhausted, let us know, and we will stop immediately.”

“Then I want to continue.”

The nurse brought chairs and coffee for the inspector and his sergeant, Alex settled down by Lotta’s side, ready to squeeze her hand when she needed reassurance. She started telling her story, slowly at the beginning and struggling to sort out what had happened, but the further she continued, the clearer the images in her memory became. When she described the walk from the van to the room where they were eventually locked in (gravel, stone stairs, probably leading up to a grand entrance, marble, worn-out carpet, wood), DCI Robertson looked up. “You were in fact held at the Sussex Arms Hotel near Bexhill. Does that ring a bell?”

“No.”

“It’s closed down for renovation starting in April and is currently owned by the aunt of this gentleman.” He held up the picture of the blonde man. Creepy Gun Guy.

“I doubt he is a gentleman,” Lotta said.

“I agree. Please continue.”

She went through the first hours and night of their captivity, omitting one or two of the more fiery conversations she had had with Theo and concentrating instead on the fact that they had quickly realised they were being watched, but not overheard in their prison. “Good point,” the DCI said. She described how Theo had manipulated the court circular by adding “Charlotte” to it, and both DCI Robertson and his sergeant nodded.

“That was very clever of him. It was also our first true hint that you were with him. Up until that moment, we only had a kidnapped actor and an intern gone missing on her lunch break at the same time. We had to entertain the idea that you were not a victim, but a suspect.”

“Right.” Lotta smiled faintly. “I hope I have been able to clear myself from that suspicion.” The DCI nodded with another friendly smile. “That evening, when we were served tuna pizza for the third time in a row, it occurred to me that if we managed to insert the pizza service’s name into the court circular, we might be able to provide a clue to who… who these people were.”

“And you did. Tuna pizza from Dantino’s Pizza Express in Bexhill. It was Sergeant Winter here who put the pieces together. – Signor Dantino’s surveillance camera provided us with an excellent shot of his best customer for tuna pizza.” He held up the grainy picture of Creepy Gun Guy again.

Lotta went on to give a slightly improved account on how they had worked out that the abduction was about Theo’s understudy, and the DCI nodded once more. “This woman is not unknown to Mr Franklin. In fact, she is his staunchest follower on social media, in a way that has come close to stalking over the last few weeks. The man is her cousin, a petty criminal who’ll do anything if the price is right.” Lotta shuddered, thinking of how the woman had told her on the first day that her companion was “pro strangling her on the spot”.

There was not much left to say. Lotta explained how she had woken up during the night because she had heard something, and how suddenly all hell broke loose and Mrs Griffiths was standing there, pointing the gun at Theo with the policemen in the background.

“Yes,” the DCI said. “Her cousin jumped ship that evening when he was supposed to look after you while she was in London. She was furious when she came back, and unfortunately, that interfered with our liberation plan.”

“Your incompetence!” Alex, who had been quietly holding Lotta’s hand, exploded. “My sister is here in this state because of your incompetence!”

“Mr Wilms, please.”

“Alex,” Lotta quietly said. “What good will that do? I’m here, and I’m alive, and that is what is important.” Alex was still raging, but for the sake of her relented and sat down next to her once more.

“Thank you for going through all this with us again, Lotta,” the DCI said. “I know this has been difficult for you. Your abductors are behind lock and key now, and they will be brought to justice.”

Lotta nodded. When the policemen were gone, Alex started raging against their incompetence again. “Please,” she said. “Can we forget all this and talk about something positive?”

“Of course. I’m sorry.” He took out his phone and started a video call to their family.

“But I’m looking horrible!”

“You are the most beautiful sister anyone can have. And the bravest and most clever,” Alex said, and when the small screen was filled with her brothers and her father, all of them talking, laughing and waving at her at the same time, she broke into the first real smile for what felt like ages.

When they had finished the call, she kept her brother’s phone a moment longer. Of all the mental notes she had made during her captivity, she could only remember one, and that one she wanted to follow up urgently. Holding the phone in her right hand and only using her thumb, she opened Tumblr and slowly typed _Theo Parker_ into the search. More than once did she hit the wrong letters, but finally the full name and with it, the pictures appeared. The first two or three entries did not look familiar at all, but what came after that made her blush deeply. Oh dear! She quickly closed the page. _I’m being reduced to a naked bum on Tumblr,_ she heard him say, and as far as she could judge it, he was absolutely right.

“Now you’ve got colour in your face again!” Nurse Di barged in, wearing a happy smile as always and turning to Alex. “Young man, I think it’s time for you to go home, get a change of clothes, take a shower and a nap. Your sister is not running away again.”

“You’re right,” Alex said with a yawn. “If you can manage, Lotta?”

“I’m sure I can. And thank you for being here in the first place. – But where are you staying?” she added after a second.

“At Marty and Tamzin’s. He grew up near Hastings, and they still have a weekend house by the sea, so they insisted.”

Marty and Tamzin. The internship at SandY. The avocado sandwich. All that seemed to have happened in a different life, and yet, it was only eight days ago. And with these memories, Lotta slowly drifted back into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering: the Theo Parker thing actually works on Tumblr.


	10. Every Happiness

The light had changed when Lotta woke up again. She gathered that it was night now, or evening, with the lamps on the medical appliances around her blinking in semi-darkness. And she was not alone. Someone was sitting by her side. Not her brother, not Nurse Di or the doctor, not the inspector either. A woman. A woman she had never seen before. A beautiful woman, even in the twilight of the room: a slender silhouette, dressed for a night out, the blonde hair artistically pinned up at the back of her head, her make up underlining her delicate features.

The woman was not looking at her though but at the mobile phone in her manicured hand. Lotta closed her eyes, hoping that she, whoever she was, would be gone when she opened them again. She knew this type of woman. They would always be perfect. No ladders in their tights, no tripping over when wearing high heels, no panda-eyes from dissolved mascara. No torn skirts, no bad hair day turning an artfully arranged ponytail into a mess of tangled strands, no thoughtless running into situations that made one end up being shot and hospitalised. This woman, she realised, would have called the police, then proceeded to knock out Creepy Gun Guy and Mrs Griffiths with her stylish clutch and managed to look utterly unaffected by the time the officers arrived. This type of woman usually existed only in the movies. Yet one rare real specimen was now sitting by her bedside.

Lotta squinted, hoping the vision would be gone when she opened her eyes. But the woman was still there, now looking up from her mobile phone, her pretty features turning into a smile that made her even more beautiful when she saw Lotta waking up. “There you are,” she said. “I was afraid you might sleep until tomorrow morning.” She had a warm and friendly voice. Maybe she was the good-fairy, Lotta assumed. Come to heal her shoulder with a magic touch.

The woman took a white handkerchief from her clutch and carefully dabbed her eyes, somehow and indeed magically without smudging her make up. “How we’ll be forever in your debt. – Now. I’ll pull myself together, I promise. I’m…”

At this moment, Nurse Di barged in. “How’s our Sleeping Beauty? Are you…” She stopped mid-sentence when she saw the woman by Lotta’s bed. Her blue eyes, which were large even under normal circumstances, seemed to bulge entirely out of her head, and her hand, carrying a tray with pills, stayed arrested somewhere in mid-air.

“I’m sorry”, the woman said with a sweet smile. “I know it’s beyond visiting time, and I fear I rather bullied the warden into letting me in, but… you’ll understand how important it is for us to say thank you, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Nurse Di gulped, finally lowering the tray and then somehow remembering her duties. “Two minutes, no more. And only if it’s ok for you, Lotta?”

Lotta gave a shrug, pain shooting through her left shoulder again. After all, she’d been through, she’d also survive a two-minutes-visit by the good-fairy, she thought. The nurse took a position on the other side of her bed, crossing her arms like a security guard. The woman smiled sweetly at her and then started searching for something on her mobile phone. “Since we don’t have much time, I’ll just show you his message. He would have loved to come here and see you in person, but you know how he is… professional through and through, and tonight is his first night back on stage. So he sent me down from London as a friendly messenger. – Here it is.” With another smile, she held up her phone, and Lotta saw her unkempt, grumpy, brooding fellow prisoner on the screen, only that he was not looking unkempt, grumpy or brooding at all now. He was clean-shaven, his hair was groomed, and he was wearing a crisp white shirt which in its simplicity only underlined the masculinity of his dark features.

“Hi, Lotta,” he said with an awkward grimace. “So you’ve woken up. That’s excellent news. I… well, as you see, I’ve been awake for a little longer and returned to real life.” The camera swung around and showed the dressing room of a theatre with several dressing tables in a row and costume stands in the background. “Tonight’s my first night out on stage and… well, I really wish you could be here with us. So get well soon. I owe you an avocado sandwich, and I hate to be in debt. ” Some more awkward grinning. “Anyway. What I’ve been meaning to say is thank you. I know I was a good deal less than easy to deal with back at that place, and for whatever it’s worth, I believe… I believe you have saved me in more than one sense.” He looked down, apparently embarrassed by his own words, and then up at the camera again, that vulnerable little puppy expression once more in his face. A bell was ringing in the background, and the large-eyed puppy looked relieved. “I’m being called on stage. So… er, right. Get well, ok?” The small screen went black, and the woman put the phone back into her clutch.

“Oh dear. I can see this has upset you.” She briefly touched Lotta’s cheek with the back of her hand, covering the tears. “So I’ll just say thank you as well and then leave you in peace. If I’m lucky, I’ll make it to the Westend in time for the curtain call. Good-bye, and get well soon.” She was gone, leaving Lotta more befuddled than ever.

“Who was that?” she finally managed to ask the nurse.

“Why, that was Mrs Campion herself!”

Just another name she had never heard before. “I’m sorry, I don’t recall a Mrs Campion,” she admitted.

Nurse Di was staring at her in disbelief. “Oh my, I fear you’ll have to see the neurologist tomorrow. You’re obviously suffering from partial amnesia.” And as Lotta continued looking helplessly at her, she added: “Mrs Campion? The she-devil who snatched our Sidney away from his Admiral Heywood?”

Admiral Heywood? Now she was completely lost. As far as she remembered, the whole fuss was about an Austen adaptation with naked bums and a divergent ending, but… was it a gay romance as well? And if Mrs Campion was a character in a TV series, why was she standing by her bedside, showing her a message from Theo Parker?

“Well,” the nurse said, “the good thing is that if you’re suffering from amnesia, you can watch Sanditon again as if for the first time. How lucky you are! But do make sure to switch off right after _the kiss_ in episode eight. Otherwise, you’ll regret it until the end of your life.”

Lotta had a distinct feeling that just now, there were many other things she would regret until the end of her life, and none of them had anything to do with a kiss and that ubiquitous period drama. Yet Mrs Campion… befuddled as she was, she wanted to get to the bottom of it. “If Mrs Campion is a character in a period drama, why was she here right now?”

“Well, because she’s married to him of course.”

“But… that’s what happens in Sanditon. Mrs Campion marries Sidney … Sidney …” She tried and failed to remember his last name, despite Mrs Griffiths’ (or whatever her real name was) constant namedropping. Sidney… Denham? Maudsley? Or was it Babington? Wrong, that was the one without a first name. Or were Babington and Sidney one and the same person? No, that was too elaborate. She would have to postpone this until the next day. As soon as her brother returned, she would ask him for his phone and google the solutions to all Sanditon conundrums.

However, Nurse Di would not leave for the night without making things clear. “Did you not know? In real life, Mrs Campion _is_ his wife. Imagine how awkward that must have been during filming… watching your own husband fall in love with someone else on the screen and knowing that the whole world will hate you for snatching away something that is rightfully yours.”

“Yes,” Lotta said, and even though the nurse’s train of thoughts was too complex for her to follow, everything else finally made sense. He was married. Of course. To a kind and beautiful woman he had not mentioned once during four days and four nights in that bloody disused hotel room.

Granted, he had told her next to nothing about himself, and she had very soon understood that asking private questions would only lead to another shutdown. Come to think of it, the most personal piece of information he had ever shared was the story of being dumped into the sea… no: emerging from the sea in midwinter, and even then he had left out some details (she desperately tried to swipe the Tumblr images from her mind). It had taken him three days and three nights to come to the point where he explained the Sanditon situation that he assumed was the reason for his abduction… assumed wrongly, as they now knew. And while she had trusted him enough to tell him the whole sad story of how all her hopes and dreams had been wrecked after her mother’s death, he could not even be bothered to mention his own wife who must have been beset with worries during those days, poor woman.

He had put up an act, as was to be expected from an actor. He had been playing a role since the moment back in the van when she asked him who he was. Theo Parker, she understood, was someone she did not know at all. The man she had spent four days and four nights with did not even exist.

*

Lotta passed a restless night, drifting in and out of dreams and memories, mixing the one with the other. Nurse Di was off duty the next morning. Her replacement appeared to be less talkative and not interested in Sanditon and its inhabitants at all while she washed Lotta for the day and dressed her in a fresh gown.

There would be more medical check-ups during the day, she learned, especially of her shoulder which seemed not to heal the way it was supposed to. And there would be another visit from the police. But the first person to show up was neither a doctor nor an inspector, but Alex, bringing a smile, greetings and more video messages with him. There was one from Marty and Tamzin, with Marty giving her an enthusiastic thumbs up and Tamzin wiping away some tears from her eyes and another one from her great aunt who held her Downton Abbey Season One DVD into the camera and told Lotta to come home soon so they could watch Mr Pamuk die together.

The longest message, however, was from her father. He seemed to be seriously worried, and only in part because his only daughter had been abducted, shot, fallen into a coma and left with a shoulder wound that was not healing the way it was supposed to. He was at least as concerned about the virus that seemed to be picking up speed in its spread, and he did not like the idea of his two eldest children being stuck abroad during a scenario that was looking more and more like a global pandemic to him. Their father, Alex told Lotta, was trying to arrange to have her transported home and treated there. Even though she found her father’s anxiety about the virus a little exaggerated, she knew that the best she could do was to return to her family and leave this whole horrible episode behind her.

Alex had just gone for a coffee when someone knocked and came in without waiting for Lotta’s answer: A stout man in his early sixties with a grey mob of hair and piercing eyes. He was wearing an old-fashioned three-piece suit with a clock chain and a pocket square matching his broad silk tie. Altogether he looked as if he had just walked in from a different century, an idea enhanced by the heavy leather briefcase he was now placing on the mattress as if Lotta’s bed was part of his office furniture. “Miss Wilms? I’m Sir Harry Hollis, Mr James’ legal counsel.”

“Good morning,” Lotta said, keeping up basic civility even if her visitor did not find it necessary to do so likewise. He opened the briefcase and took a document from it.

“I’m here to discuss the NDA,” he said. “Though there is not much to discuss, of course. I provide the paperwork, you sign, Mr James provides the cheque.”

“I’m sorry,” Lotta said, feeling befuddled once more. “I think you’ve knocked on the wrong door. I don’t know a Mr James and I don’t know what NDA means.” The lawyer was not impressed.

“Yes, Miss Wilms. Nice try. In fact, Mr James cautioned me that you could be headstrong and opinionated. However, I suggest we don’t waste neither my time nor his money. Here is the NDA, here is a pen, and here is where you sign.” He handed her a fountain pen and pointed at a line on the last page with Lotta’s full name typed underneath it. She shoved the papers away from her, making them slowly sail to the ground. She was not going to sign anything, not in her present state and certainly not as long as she did not know what it was.

“What’s going on here?” Alex was returning, coffee mug in hand and staring at his sister’s visitor. “Who are you?” He left the mug on the nightstand and bent down to pick up the papers. “Non-Disclosure Agreement?” he read. “Are you serious?”

 _You’ll pay me for not saying something that isn’t true anyway?_ This rang a bell.

Sir Harry took the papers from Alex. “This is a necessary and customary procedure in situations such as these, serving both your interests and those of my client. If you’re trying to increase the amount on the cheque though, I must say that your present lack of cooperation only has the opposite effect.”

“Get out of this room,” Alex said.

“Wait.” Lotta’s voice was steady and cool. There it was, the last missing piece of the puzzle, and she finally saw what had been right in front of her for days. “Am I to understand that your client… this Mr James is offering me a certain amount of money if I do not disclose to the media or anyone else what transpired at the Sussex Arms Hotel?”

Sir Harry nodded with a condescending smile. “I see we are finally getting somewhere, Miss Wilms.”

“Lotta,” Alex said. “Don’t sign that. Papa will call his lawyer, and then we will see.”

“The longer this takes, the more disadvantageous it will be for you”, Sir Harry said.

“No.” Lotta was very calm now. If only things had been so simple from the very beginning. “Sir Henry…”

“Harry. Sir Harry Hollis.”

“Right. Sir Harry, my apologies. And I’m sorry you had to come all the way from London first thing this morning only to be disappointed.”

“I don’t see disappointment, Miss Wilms. At least not on my side.”

“I assume your fee will be calculated based on the amount Mr James puts on the cheque that is paying for my silence?” The lawyer’s face was answer enough. “Well, then you _are_ in for a disappointment, Sir Harry. – I’m not going to sign this thing. Or anything like this, whatever the amount is that you insert.”

Sir Harry, red in the face now, gasped for air. “That is very unreasonable of you. It is my client’s wish to offer a certain financial relief in a situation he understands is unfortunate for you.”

“How very kind of him. Why does he send his lawyer instead of making this generous offer himself?”

“This is how delicate businesses such as these are conducted, Miss Wilms. No direct contact between the parties involved.”

“Of course not. Then would you convey a message from me to him?”

“As I said, the terms are not open to negotiation, and if they were, negotiations would be conducted through me.”

“You misunderstand, Sir Harry. I don’t wish to negotiate. I’m not going to sign this thing, not today and not tomorrow or on any other day, no matter what amount you put on it.” Sir Henry was gasping for air when she continued: “There is nothing to disclose. I don’t know your client. I have never met a Mr James. I was held captive for four days and four nights with a man whom I tried to stay away from as much as possible because, with every hour passing, he reminded me more of a rotten tuna. But that is a story I am never going to tell because I don’t think anyone will ever ask me about my imprisonment with a third-class actor called Theo Parker.”

Sir Harry, now pale, coughed. “My client indicated that there might have been certain misapprehensions…”

“Then let me be absolutely clear now. I don’t know your client, and I have no wish to know him. I hope never to hear from him again. But I do wish him every happiness for the rest of his life.” She leaned back and turned her face away. She did not want the lawyer to see those treacherous tears in her eyes. As Sir Harry collected his papers, Doctor Liski came in.

“Good morning, my dear… oh – what is this? This is a hospital room, not an office space.”

“I’m leaving,” Sir Harry said.

“I should hope so. The patient’s condition is a very delicate one. Any exertion, any mental stress can cause a dangerous relapse…”

“Good day, Miss Wilms,” Sir Harry said. “I hope you don’t come to regret your decision.”

“Odious man,” Lotta muttered when he was gone. Doctor Liski went on prattling about specialists and her shoulder and certain hygienic measures that had to be taken in the light of the news about the virus, but she was too tired to listen to him. She was relieved when he was gone as well, and only Alex left with her. Her brother drew a chair to the side of the bed so he could sit close to her. “What a mess,” he sighed. “Are you sure you will not regret rejecting the money?”

She shook her head. “No. Never.”

“It’s a strange story, though, Lotta. This Theo What’s-His-Name spoke in the press conference they held on Friday while you were still in surgery. It’s all online, you can watch it. I thought his concern about you was genuine.”

“You don’t know him. He’s an actor. He can fake a decent snore if he finds it necessary, and he can fake concern at a press conference if it makes him look sympathetic.”

“So what really happened?”

Lotta gave a shrug, once more forgetting that her left shoulder would not cooperate. The pain that shot through her arm was a welcome distraction, though. “Nothing happened. Until right now, I didn’t even know his full name. We spent most of the time either quarrelling or ignoring each other.- Alex?”

“Yes?”

“I want to go home.”

He pressed her hand. “You will. I promise.”


	11. That Is All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, Thanks again for your comments. Some of you seem to be a bit befuddled by recent events, and believe me: so was I when the nice and neat conclusion I had originally planned after chapter eight expanded into four full chapters. You might be wondering where the happy ending is that I promised at the beginning. All I can say is: I keep my promises. Though sometimes in the very last minute. 
> 
> It’s Sunday today, the weather looks a bit gloomy (at least in my part of the world), and gloomy Sunday afternoons are made for happy endings. So I am going to post the two final chapters rightaway.
> 
> By the way, you are about to meet two people that have been truly missing from the story so far. I didn’t plan to bring them in initially, but at least one of them is a type that won't accept a no for an answer, so here’s their little cameo.
> 
> ***  
> A short update: When I wrote this story in May 2020, I had no idea but some hopes about the state of our world in October. Seems I have been massively wrong. However, I believe we can all do with a happier parallel universe.
> 
> Stay safe, stay calm, wear your mask.  
> T.

_October_

Everyone said that they had never lived through times like these before. That was the one consensus that seemed to hold families, countries, continents and the whole world together: That this year was a turning point after which things would never be the same again.

When Lotta listened to her family, her friends and neighbours discussing what was called “the new normal”, she never cared to join the conversation. Of course, those weeks in spring when the virus had dominated everything had been devastating. Of course, she had become used to washing her hands several times during the day, keeping the proper distance and protecting her face with a mask. Of course, she was missing the socialising and the events that used to fill the village calendar – even the annual shooting competition. And yet she felt she was an outlier because her personal turning point was not the day when the virus had been officially declared a mortal threat to society, to be fought with a set of rules and restrictions. Her turning point had arrived two weeks earlier when she dropped that lunch bag and ran into the yard in St Martin’s Lane. After that, things had never been the same again.

And yet here she was, more than half a year later, back to London, on a sunny autumn morning in a quiet residential square in South Kensington, off the Cromwell Road. It was the day before the beginning of the trial of her kidnappers. George, her legal counsel, had informed her that Sir Harry Hollis, who was representing the other victim, had summoned (yes, indeed _summoned_ ) them for an emergency meeting regarding their strategy. Lotta had had no idea that they required a strategy. To her, things appeared very straightforward: She had been abducted, held a prisoner and shot. The two people responsible for that deserved to rot in prison until the end of their lives, preferably on a diet of canned pineapple and tuna pizza. She did not like the idea of needing a strategy. Come to that, she did not like the idea of meeting Sir Harry Hollis of the NDA either. Or, even worse, his client. The other victim.

She had known for weeks that she would see him again, ever since the date for the trial had been set. In the beginning, the judge had considered permitting her testimony by video call, but with the travel restrictions eased, he now insisted on her personal appearance. She had hoped that meeting _the other victim_ in the publicity of a courtroom would somehow reduce the awkwardness of the situation. Meeting him at Sir Harry’s home, however, left little hope for that. Which was why she was still hovering in front of Sir Harry’s door, pretending to be terribly busy checking very urgent messages on her phone. She simply could not bring herself to ring the bell. Or use the door knocker, for Sir Harry’s noble Victorian abode did not feature such common practicality as a bell. Lotta felt way out of her depth before even having set foot into the building.

She decided to type another very urgent message to Alex when a cab stopped right next to her on the street. Instantly alarmed she looked up, but it was not _the other victim_ that emerged but a portly man of about thirty with a large head covered by black hair. He had friendly eyes that seemed to be ready to break into a smile anytime – just as they did when he saw Lotta. He started towards her, then stopped himself, obviously remembering the distancing rule that was still in place. “You must be Lotta.”

“I am,” she replied, unsure of what to make of this appearance.

“I’m Artie,” he said. “The manager. Pleased to meet you, Lotta.” He stretched out his hand, then remembering the rules withdrew it. “Oh, this blasted distancing. How are you? Afraid of entering the lion’s den?” He pointed with his head at Sir Harry’s house. “Tell you a secret: He’s a lion who cannot bite without adhesive cream. Come on, you can hide behind my back.” And his back was in fact wide enough to hide behind. She had no idea who he was (though she had an inkling whose manager he was), but she took an instant liking to him. He knocked on the door that was opened immediately by Sir Harry himself. The master of the house ushered them in, and then cast a careful glance outside.

“Well,” Artie said. “This has something of a conspiratorial meeting, Sir Harry. Are we being watched? Why not meet at your office?”

“The press has been sniffling around the office over the last few days. They are on the scent of a story, and I don’t intend to feed it to them,” the lawyer said. “Miss Wilms,” he added with a court nod at Lotta.

“Good morning, Sir Harry,” Lotta replied, once more trying to show basic civility even if her counterpart did not.

“Your… counsel is already here,” he said, and from the way he was wrinkling his nose, she could tell that they had already been at loggerheads. Her lawyer had come by the recommendation of Marty and Tamzin. Despite being called George, she was in fact a tall, self-confident woman who was wearing her dreadlocks with as much pride as her African-Caribbean ancestry. “A real fighter,” Marty had said. “Like you, my dear.”

“I saw you from the window,” George welcomed her. “Have you been too afraid to come in?” She was not only competent and self-confident but also brutally honest. It was a miracle she and Sir Harry had not yet murdered each other.

“I had to send a message to my brother,” Lotta lied. “Always takes a little longer with only one hand.”

Sir Harry led them into what looked like his dining room. There was a table large enough to accommodate them all with the proper space between them, and naturally, he took his seat at the top of it before inviting his guests to follow. Then he checked the pocket watch hanging from a gold chain in his waistcoat. “Where is he?” he asked Artie.

The manager shrugged his shoulders, helping himself to coffee and a good portion of biscuits. “You know him. Not really a morning person.”

“But he does understand the importance of this meeting?”

“Once he’s here, I’m sure he will. – Oh, speaking of the devil…” His phone was beeping. “There we are… delays on the Northern Line. He’ll be here in ten minutes. – Which gives us time to get a little bit better acquainted with each other, doesn’t it? Are they still doing these ghastly temperature checks before they let you into the country, Lotta?”

“They are. I also had to take a rapid test before I could get _out_ of the country in the first place.”

“Thank the Lord for rapid testing… It makes our life so much easier. And they don’t send you into quarantine any longer.”

“No, but I was not allowed to stay with my friends either.”

“So you’re in a hotel?”

“I’m staying at an apartment in Bayswater for the duration of the trial.”

“Is this going to be about the trial or about accommodation in London?” George asked. Instead of being offended, Artie beamed at her and took another biscuit.

“It’s about making conversation. Getting acquainted with each other… making friends. So important in times such as these.” But George was not interested in making friends.

“I think we are here because both our clients became victims of a crime. So why don’t you reveal what all this is about, Sir Harry?”

“I don’t intend to explain everything twice,” the lawyer said and leaned back in his chair, leaving the conversation to Artie who chattered away merrily and continued to interview Lotta about her stay in London. He had started recommending restaurants in the Bayswater area he believed she would enjoy when there was another knock on the door. Sir Harry went out to answer it, and Lotta clasped her left hand with her right and tried to breathe evenly. I was not afraid when I ran into that damned yard, she thought. Why am I afraid now when all I have to do is sit at this table and listen and smile?

“There he is,” Sir Harry announced, and there he was indeed, removing a black cloth mask from his face and offering a crooked smile while taking the free chair between Artie and Sir Harry. This, Lotta thought, was one of the few occasions in which the distancing rules had a positive side effect: it made greetings such as these so much less embarrassing. No need for a handshake or an awkward embrace. Just a quick glance at everyone and a slightly longer nod at her. Unfortunately, he was still heartbreakingly handsome. Maybe even more so as he was shaved and wearing clean clothes instead of a stained T-shirt.

“Good to see you again, Lotta,” he said. “I hope you’re well.”

“Very well, thank you,” she told the orchid behind him on Sir Harry’s windowsill.

“Why is your arm in a sling?” Of all the questions she had imagined him to ask this was the last one. How could he not know? Now she had to look at him. That little-puppy-expression in his eyes that she knew so well. A clear sign of him not being himself but acting.

“I was shot?” she suggested.

“Again?” The look on his face was so blank that for a split-second, she was inclined to give him credit. Then she remembered. Everything. He was an actor. He did not deserve her trust.

“No. Once was enough for the damage.” He looked at the lawyer.

“Did you know about that, Sir Harry?”

Sir Harry cleared his throat. “Everyone knows the circumstances under which she was shot, Theo.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. Did you know that her arm is… what is wrong with your arm?”

Before Lotta could answer, George leaned forward. “If you wish for some sentimental talk, Mr James, I suggest we handle the business part of our meeting first. Otherwise, you’re wasting your fees. - Why are we here, Sir Harry?”

“I want to know what’s wrong with Lotta’s arm!” Theo exploded. From puppy to brute in under a minute, Lotta thought. Bravo. Safe candidate for the Oscars.

“The shoulder is not healing properly. There was too much damage to the bone,” she calmly said. “I’ll have another surgery before Christmas. I can use the arm, but at the moment it’s painful and easier when I carry it in a sling.”

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry.” Now he was in full puppy-mode again. She turned her gaze away, unconsciously cradling her left hand with the right. He was a bloody good actor, she had to give him that. He had turned to his lawyer. “Why was I never told?”

“Why did you never ask?” she said before Sir Harry could answer, looking at him directly and seeing him blush.

“Ahem.” Sir Harry was clearing his throat once more. “As I tried to explain to you on an earlier occasion, Miss Wilms, direct contact between the parties involved was not desirable. – Anyway. I agree with my colleague, discussing these private matters is wasting your fees. There will be time enough for that later. For now, we have to deal with the new situation regarding the trial.”

“I don’t know about a new situation,” George said.

Sir Harry granted her a condescending gaze. “No. Of course not. Because you are busy calculating your fee and figuring out how to offend the establishment. I, however, have, thanks to my longstanding connections…”

“Please, Sir Harry. Spit it out,” Theo said before George could reach over and throttle his lawyer. No more puppy-mode.

“I have reliable information that the defence will turn a spotlight on the videotapes.”

“The videotapes?” Artie echoed.

“Yes, the videotapes,” Sir Harry repeated. “You might remember that our client was under constant video surveillance during his… ordeal.”

“I know that,” the manager said, not seeming offended in the least and helping himself to another cookie. “So what’s wrong with that?”

“Maybe that is a question we should ask our clients.” Sir Harry looked expectantly from Theo to Lotta and back. Theo leaned forward.

“What are you suggesting?”

“I just want to make sure that there will be no unpleasant surprises once excerpts of these tapes are shown in the courtroom.”

“Unpleasant surprises?” Theo repeated with a threatening undertone that made Lotta automatically search for cover. Someone was going to fling a pizza at the wall very, very soon.

Sir Harry put on another meaningful expression. “Like two people enjoying themselves too much while being secluded from the rest of the world.” Theo turned away. No explosion then. But a dangerously calm voice.

“I’m not going to comment on that, Sir Harry. That is beneath you.”

“It will not be beneath the defense side to point their fingers at you and Miss Wilms if there is anything on these tapes that could damage your reputations.” Pictures hurled through Lotta’s memory: a paper boat picnic, a dancing lesson, pizzas hitting the wall and a hug, a very friendly hug. Had they been expected to sit in their prison and wait with their hands folded until the special unit of the British police came along? Theo’s fist crashing down on Sir Harry’s dining table extinguished the pictures in her memory.

“For God’s sake, Sir Harry!” Apparently, he was in a fighting mood. But then again, he had to be. He was the one with a public career in acting. “We were the _victims_. We were held for four days in a room with nothing but the newspaper to distract us from worrying about what might become of us. And if we had decided to perform the Chicken Dance nonstop, there would still be nothing to point the finger at.”

Sir Harry nodded. “Nothing untoward then. Very well. That brings me to the next topic. – Miss Wilms.” Lotta, temporarily distracted by the idea of Theo performing the Chicken Dance, looked up.

“Miss Wilms,” Sir Harry repeated, making sure she looked at him. “Apparently, the other side will argue that they made a certain offer that you declined.”

“An offer?” she repeated, dumbfounded. The only offer she could think of in this context was the NDA, and that was certainly not what Sir Harry had in mind. He nodded gravely.

“Both defendants will testify that once they realised you were collateral damage and not acquainted with Mr James at all, they offered to set you free on the very first evening.”

“What?” That was Theo. All Lotta could do was stare at the lawyer.

“And they will testify that you declined this offer, which brings us back to the videotapes, suggesting that you enjoyed yourself too much. – From a legal standpoint, I want to add that if you stayed there on your own behalf, this might commute the verdict on the shooting from attempted murder to attempted manslaughter.” 

“This is not true,” Theo said. “There was no such offer. We were together all the time.”

“Were you?” Sir Harry said. “I understand there was a bathroom which you were both free to use. It’s somewhere in your very first statement here, Theo…” He filed through the papers in front of him. “ _I was in the bathroom for about five minutes, and on my return, Miss Wilms was handcuffed with her right hand to the bed._ That’s when the offer was made, wasn’t it, Miss Wilms? While my client was out of the way. But you declined, hoping for a bigger fish.”

“Tell me that this is not true, Lotta,” Theo whispered under his breath, with a gleaming in his eyes she had never seen before. For once, she was sure that he was not acting. Artie was gawping at her, and even George was holding her breath.

“It is not true,” Lotta said, holding her head high and meeting Theo’s gaze openly. “They never offered to set me free. The woman said something about a Lady Denham whom I didn’t know, and that one day, I would be grateful for what was happening, but I wasn’t grateful then, and I’m not now.” There was a twitch around his mouth, something she remembered him doing when acknowledging a fact without words.

“Very well,” Sir Harry said. “Unfortunately, that still leaves the matter of the NDA that you so… emphatically refused to sign, Miss Wilms.”

“What does that have to do with everything?” Artie asked.

“Wait,” George said. “You’re not implying…”

“I am implying that your client, my dear colleague, very quickly took advantage of the situation she happened to find herself in. Everyone, including my client, describes her as a clever and resourceful person. So Lotta Wilms, a frustrated librarian from a little village in the middle of nowhere, come to London in the hope for a better life, finds herself unexpectedly in the intimate company of a famous actor, considers her opportunities and decides to take the risk to stay with him even when offered freedom – all the while hoping to sell her story to the press. Which is precisely why you, Miss Wilms, so strongly denied signing the NDA, isn’t it?”

“But… she got shot in the process,” Artie said, gawping again.

“Just another collateral damage, right, Miss Wilms?” Sir Harry was enjoying this, that much was obvious.

“That’s nonsense, Sir Harry,” Theo said. “She didn’t know me.”

“And there’s another major flaw to your story,” George added. “It’s been seven months now, and I don’t remember seeing any interview with my client in the press.”

“Because the whole world has been busy fighting a pandemic. There were too many other stories to tell. That was the one thing she could not have foreseen.”

Lotta slowly raised her head. It was impossible to hold back the tears of humiliation, of disillusionment and of real grief, but it was not impossible to speak up for herself one final time. So with a trembling lip and addressing the orchid on the windowsill again, she said: “Seven months ago I woke up in a hospital bed with two bullets removed from my shoulder. I did not remember immediately what had happened, and even when I did, I did not fully understand. I was transported back home and spent two more months in hospital and rehab, in isolation all the time because of the pandemic. - My brothers have been busy fighting off reporters yelling over the garden fence, and my father lives no day without reproaching himself for not stopping me from coming to London in the first place. Because he knows me, and he knew I would get into trouble just as I did every time I saw one of my little brothers being beaten up by the village bully.” She was directing her gaze at Theo now. “I saw a helpless man being shoved into a van. And I reacted on that. I spent for days and four nights with that man an in a disused hotel room. He was grumpy, he was angry, he was kind, and he was funny. He tried to make the best of the situation, just as I did.” She saw Theo’s mouth twitch again but looked at Sir Harry now. “I did not sign the Non-Disclosure Agreement you so graciously presented to me, Sir Harry, for exactly the reasons I told you. There is nothing to disclose. The man I was staying with in the hotel room does not even exist. I do not know your client, and I have no wish to know him. – That is all.”

There was dead silence in the room while everyone was staring at Lotta. Even the grandfather clock on the chimney sill stopped chiming.

“Ahem,” Artie said after what seemed half an eternity. “So much to discuss, and time’s flying. How about lunch? I was passing a couple of rather promising looking places on Brompton Road…”

“Shut up.” That was Theo.

“We are leaving,” George said, collecting her papers. “Sir Harry, if you ask me, the trial might become a rough sailing, but as a clever woman once said: _who wants to be in calm waters all the time?_ The case is strong, and so is my client. As to you, Mr James, when you’re called into the witness box, I suggest you forget all your little acting antics for a while and try to be yourself for a change. Your truest self, if possible. – Come on, Lotta. Let’s go.”


	12. Heraclitus Proven Right

_My characters shall have, after a little trouble, all that they desire._ (Jane Austen)

 _I suppose it’s just a question of compatibility._ (Charlotte Heywood)

***

“Do you really think the trial is going to be alright?” Lotta asked when they were standing outside on the street in front of Sir Harry’s house.

“Definitely,” George said, starting to walk towards Cromwell Road. “That Sir Harry is trying to impress because he messed up so badly on the NDA business. I wish I could have seen his face when you told him to… whatever you said.” She laughed. “Though it would be easier of course if only you’d signed it.”

“I don’t understand. If I had signed it… would that not have been like acknowledging that something had happened that was better swept under the carpet?”

“You’re sweet.” George brushed Lotta’s cheek and gave her a smile, ignoring the distancing rules. “And so naïve. You were in that room for four nights with one of the hottest men in the universe, and you honestly think people will believe you spent all that time reading a newspaper?”

“But we did…” The lawyer shook her head.

“Imagination is running wild, dear. That’s the way of the world. You can thank the pandemic for drawing the attention away from you. That’s about the only thing Sir Harry was right about. – You know, I’ve heard his marriage has foundered,” George added with a meaningful smile.

“Sir Harry’s?” Lotta asked, once more befuddled.

“No. Your roommate’s.” George smiled at her again and then flagged down a cab. “Can I give you a lift?”

“Thank you, but I need a walk. Hyde Park is not that far away, I think.”

“Right. Do the tourist stuff. I’ll give you a call tonight about tomorrow. And don’t worry, the people who did that to you will see justice.”

Lotta watched the cab slowly vanish down Cromwell Road. Then she turned to the right, ignoring the impressive façade of the V&A on the other side of the street, and walked past a hotel, a fitness club and an antique shop towards the traffic lights. It reminded her of those first moments of her lunch break back in March, when she had walked down St Martin’s Lane, feeling free and independent for the first time in years, a life full of possibilities ahead of her. Though she was not carrying a lunch bag this time. Time to settle the account with that avocado sandwich, she decided, grabbed her phone and opened Google Maps. Sure there was a Pret à manger somewhere close by? But before she could start the search, she heard someone call her name. She froze for a split second, and then, a little faster than before, started towards the traffic lights.

“Lotta!” This time it was unmistakable. Someone was right behind her and very delicately touching her elbow now. “Please.”

She turned around and hissed: “Do keep your distance. This is less than two meters.”

“I can’t.” He was wearing a face mask again, which made his eyes look even larger. They were back to full-puppy mode, dark, shining, pleading – and making her only feel more aggressive.

“But what do you want from me?” she asked, anger in her voice.

His eyes changed to smile mode, half-amused, half-anxious. “Talk?”

“About what?”

“Everything.”

“I’m really not in the mood for conversation,” she said, then stopped at the traffic lights. Traffic was too heavy for a random crossing.

“I missed our talks,” he said.

“Did you? Then I wonder why you never picked up the phone during the last seven months. You must have been exceedingly busy.”

“I was advised not to get in touch with you.” He made that piece of advice sound particularly important and official. Lotta sighed.

“Let me guess: it’s Sir Harry and the NDA again, right?”

“Right.”

“If I had signed it, you would have called and sent me flowers and a get-well card instead of a video message?”

“Yes. – Look, unfortunately, Sir Harry failed to explain the finer details of the NDA to you. It’s not only about stopping you from selling stories to the press about me plastering the walls with tuna pizza.”

“I would never do such a thing!” she cried. He nodded gravely.

“I know that. And I understand how much your pride was hurt by the offer.” He was trying to molly-coddle her of course. She was not going to fall for it. Instead, she was staring at the traffic lights as if her gaze alone could make them change their colour. With a little sigh, he continued. “An NDA is meant to protect both sides and give them freedom at the same time. You would not have been able to talk to the press, but you would have been free to talk to _me_ any time you wanted to. The fact that you were rushed out of the country by your family didn’t exactly help, either.”

“ _Rushed out of the country?_ We were at the beginning of a pandemic! Have you any… the slightest idea of what my family went through?”

“I do, and you know that I’m sorry. Yet it would have been easier if your family had not rejected all of Sir Harry’s efforts to get in touch with you.”

“They were trying to protect me!”

“And only made matters worse.”

Lotta shook her head. Maybe her brothers had been a little overbearing during the last few months. For example, by not telling her that Sir Harry had been in touch again while she was in isolation and in rehab. But that was her business, not his. Thankfully, the traffic lights turned green now. “I really don’t want to have anything to do with you,” she said as he was following her across the street.

“How can you say that if you also think that you don’t know me at all?” he asked, an amused gleam in his eyes above the mask. She wished she had a lunch bag at hand, ready to punch it in his face.

“Because you’re an actor and nothing you say is ever to be trusted.”

“Ah… first impressions gone wrong and pride struggling with prejudice… I think I’ve heard that somewhere before.” He chuckled and checked his phone. “According to Google, there is a small park and a café in the church behind the Oratory. Will you grant me the length of a coffee to try to set everything right?”

Lotta knew she had to say no. Absolutely no. If she ever wanted to close this chapter of her life, she better made sure the man right in front her made an exit. Forever. The sooner, the better. Yet, what she said was: “One coffee.” It was St Martin’s Lane all over again: Her impulses ruled over her head, no matter what the consequences would be.

“Good. – This way.” They turned to the left and walked down a side street past the Oratory. Behind the vast cupola building, there was indeed another church, much smaller, with signs for a bookshop and a café. “Right,” he said. “I get us coffee, and you find us a spot in the park. And don’t run away, please.”

The park was a tiny green affair behind the church, squeezed into the rectangle of a car park, the backsides of two rows of residential buildings and a mews with colourful doors. It was a surprisingly quiet little paradise in a city always on buzz, and Lotta made a mental note to return here if the time between the trial days allowed it. Some well-weathered headstones acted as grim reminders of the fact that the park had been a cemetery in its previous life, but in the end, they only added to the calm atmosphere beneath the autumn-coloured trees. She crossed the lawn that was covered by leaves and chestnuts and chose a bench in a sunny spot a bit separate from the others.

The small park seemed to be something like a secret. The only other visitors were a nanny whose young charge was trudging through piles of leaves, an old gentleman reading the Times, and a tourist couple hunched over their guidebook. Neither of them paid any attention to Lotta. She moved to the very left end of the bench, relaxed her left arm and let the warm October sun shine on her face. This was what it had been supposed to be like back in March: the first days of spring, the beginning of a new life. Now it was more like returning for a funeral.

“You’re still here. I was afraid you might have run away.” She opened her eyes and saw Theo standing in front of her, holding two mugs and a plate.

“There’s no running away from you. We would have met tomorrow in the courtroom anyway,” she said.

He sat down on the right end of the bench, keeping the proper distance, placing the mugs and the plate between them and removing his mask. “I bought you a carrot cake. I would have loved to make up for that legendary avocado sandwich, but the cuisine here is not sophisticated enough. I do seem to remember though that a carrot cake was also involved in the matter.”

“It was,” Lotta said, trying not to show her surprise that he remembered such a tiny detail. “The avocado sandwich was the big fish, however. I counted the loss of the carrot cake merely as a… collateral damage.”

He looked at her curiously. “Are you nervous?”

“What?”

“You’re babbling away.”

“I’m not! I’m… oh Lord. - Thank you for the carrot cake. That was very thoughtful of you.”

“My pleasure.” The smile that accompanied his words made her stomach flip. “Now tell me. The thing about your arm.”

“Just one more collateral damage. I’ll have another surgery and make my physiotherapist a wealthy man, and with some luck, I’ll be fine by Easter next year.”

“But you can’t drive the library bus anymore.” Was that real concern in his eyes? Or just another acting trick?

“No. And even though I’m a farmer’s daughter I’m not much of a help on the farm at the moment either. My aunt suggests I go back to university, study a little more and become a teacher.”

“Really? – That’s great. That’s exactly what you should be doing. The kids will love you.” He was smiling at her, and she was wondering whether he was thinking of folding paper boats right now as well.

“And the parents will hate me because on every excursion day I will return their precious charges clad up in mud up to the ears.”

“That’s exactly why they will love you. And it sounds more like you than working for a fancy architect.”

“That fancy architect was most attentive while I was in hospital,” Lotta said, knowing she sounded a bit priggish. 

“He sent you a bunch of flowers and a greeting card?” he asked, seemingly unimpressed.

“A magnificent bunch of flowers. And a handwritten greeting card. Mr Young even arranged for the apartment I’m staying in right now.” Now he raised his eyebrows.

“Has he proposed to take you out for dinner as well?”

“No. But I have my standards anyway. If there is tuna on the menu, it’s not my place.”

“If only the tuna was the worst memory.” He chuckled, then suddenly turned serious. “How are you really doing?” 

“So and so.” Lotta sighed. Apparently, her own acting skills were not as advanced as his. “My father is devastated, and my brothers pamper me, which is rather strange because I used to be the one pampering them. The only one treating me like a normal person is my great aunt. And the figure in the copse pays a visit every few nights, with the face more blurred than ever. So I am seeing a therapist and try to do my mental exercises when I’m feeling triggered.”

“Me too.” She looked up in surprise.

“You’re doing mental exercises?”

“And seeing a therapist. – Turns out that the initial plan of behaving professionally and going back to work as quickly as possible wasn’t a particularly good one.” He was staring at some distant point beyond the park’s wall.

“I’m sorry.”

“There is some irony in it, of course. The play had to be cancelled a few days after my first performance, so the pandemic saved me from the shame to admit that I was not ready to stand in front of a crowd every night and give the singing detective.”

“But that doesn’t have anything to do with shame. It’s called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and it’s completely normal after being shot, even for someone used to putting on a brooding face and pose as a hard-boiled lonesome cowboy.”

“Is that what you really thought of me?” He was looking at her intently, and for once she was sure he was not acting.

“You did a good job at pretending,” she said. His mouth was twitching, and he stared into the distance for a while before replying.

“Maybe playing the asshole Theo Parker was easier than facing the fact that I was half scared to death by the situation.”

“You were?”

“I was.” He looked down at his coffee mug as if searching for an explanation there, then looked back at her. “It’s probably not a very surprising discovery, but it turns out that dealing with genuine criminals requires much more courage than shooting fake villains with a fake gun in front of a green screen inside a studio. – I’m afraid the angry brute you met on the first day was not a real character but an impersonation of my fears. I felt strangely relieved when I understood that you knew neither me nor my name because it allowed me to slip into this different personality. So when you accuse me of acting and claim that you don’t know me at all, you’re not entirely wrong.”

“ _Not entirely wrong_ as in: I’m right?”

“Yes.”

She let that sink in for a few moments, blinking into the sunshine, trying to see things from his perspective. In the past months, she had been nearly obsessed with herself, with the consequences she was facing for her own life, with her anger about his silence, and the unfairness of it all. But this was not entirely about herself. They had been in this together from the very beginning, and she was, after all, not the only victim. And just like her, he had developed a strategy back in the hotel room to cope with his anxieties. They had both automatically resorted to what they were best at: she to talking, he to acting.

“Finally lost for words, _Fräulein_?”

“I think… I think I’m just realising for the first time that you are a real person,” she said apologetically, meeting his gaze. “Someone suffering from what has happened. Someone whose life has been turned upside down. Someone with fears whose hopes and dreams have been shattered.”

“Well said, Lotta.” He looked down, biting his lip.

“And we are talking about me all the time,” she added after a while. “But what about you? Your work? Are you back on stage? Or filming?”

“The film industry is not yet back to what it was before the virus, and everyone’s trying to save costs. I did a few modelling jobs, but otherwise, I’m a bit of in between something and nothing.” He took another sip of coffee and glanced into the distance. “Lockdown has not been the most… uplifting experience. Though after the Sussex Arms Hotel, it was, of course, an improvement.”

“One more day there and we would indeed have performed the Chicken Dance.”

“Such a pity I never had the idea back then.” They shared a smile, but then he turned serious again. “To summarize this year: All my projects have been cancelled, my conscience is eaten up by guilt because someone nearly gave their left arm for my life, and I’m paying my therapist a fortune for telling me that I am a mental mess with severe trust issues. - Oh, and my nose has been broken twice, and my wife has walked out on me.”

“Your nose looks perfectly all right.” As a matter of fact, he was as handsome as ever. Maybe even more so because of the lines the past months had added to his features. “But I’m sorry about your wife. She was nice when she came to see me at the hospital.”

“She _is_ nice. But being stuck together during lockdown has not been good for us.” He put his coffee mug aside and studied her face. “Another surprising discovery: There are people who worry about their cancelled appointment at the manicurist during lockdown, and there are others who start folding paper boats and pretend they go on a sailing trip to pass the time.”

On this, Lotta found it extremely difficult to comment. So she did not but looked down, sipped some more coffee and hoped he would not notice the blush on her face.

“How do you like Sanditon?” he asked after a while.

“I couldn’t say. I haven’t watched it.”

“You haven’t?” The sheer disbelief in his face made her smile. _It is very often nothing but our own vanity that deceives us,_ she heard her aunt quote. It was her favourite. Vanity indeed! Did he really believe she had had nothing better to do than to rush and watch and admire him in that ill-fated series?

“I was warned by someone with true authority on the matter that the ending was unsatisfactory. And after everything that had happened to me, I simply wasn’t in for another unhappy ending.”

“Understandable. I didn’t think of that,” he said.

She let him dangle for a few seconds before she added: “But my aunt has watched it.”

“Your great aunt with the ancient DVD-player?”

“Yes. Though this time it was the twins who had to sort out the player because I was still in rehab.”

“And how did she like it?”

“Are you sure you want to hear that?”

“Come on. Can’t be worse than what you said… disrespectful and awful were the words, I think.” Even if he pretended to feel light-hearted about it, she could see from his eyes that he didn’t.

“Some nuances might be lost in translation,” she warned. “But her general feedback was: When it comes to horrible Austen adaptions Sanditon is surpassed only by that silly one of Mansfield Park that has poor Fanny Price running about the place non-stop.”

“She said that?”

“Yes. She used to be an English teacher, she’s nearly eighty, and she wrote her thesis on Pride and Prejudice, so she’s in the corner of the Austen purists. The most important thing I’m supposed to tell you is that in Austenland, Mr Parker would have been forced to marry Miss Heywood after the encounter at the cove. – I believe that was the scene where you forgot to put your swimming trunks on.”

“There were no such things as swimming trunks in Austenland.”

“Anyway, my aunt says that if exposing yourself to that poor girl wasn’t enough, taking her to a brothel in London should have sealed the marriage deal. – I have to admit that at that stage, I wasn’t sure whether we were talking about the same series, but the picture on the DVD cover looked exactly like you, so I believe we were.”

Theo sighed. “I told you we took an…”

“… unconventional and modern approach, I know. – But what made my aunt really angry was that final episode. She said the second half of it contained the most muddled and non-sensical writing she ever had to endure. Watching it was worse than three episodes of Midsomer Murders, and the last scene made her fling the remote control at the screen. Luckily, it didn’t hit. She said everyone responsible should be forced to eat canned pineapple until the end of their lives. Her words were: _There is as much logic in the final twenty minutes as in constructing a building and then remove the foundations only moments before you put on the roof_.”

“That’s… well. I had hoped for some mercy.” He took another sip from his coffee mug, and, realising that it was empty, continued to stare at the bottom of it. Her aunt’s verdict seemed to genuinely affect him.

Lotta let him suffer for a while – why should he be feeling any better than those scores of unhappy viewers? – before adding: “There’s something else she said.”

“I’m not sure I want to hear it now.”

“You will have to.” She could not help but smile. “Because what she also said was that if only you had left out the Austen label and simply sold it as the story of a struggling seaside resort in Regency times, it would have been one of the finest and most original period dramas she has ever watched.” Seeing his face lightening up, she continued: “She said every episode was like a box of chocolate, delightful and full of pleasant surprises, making one hope it would never end - apart from the last twenty minutes of course. She thinks that somehow you – I mean, everyone involved – truly managed to capture and convey the spirit of the times.” She let a few seconds pass before adding: “That reminded me of what you had told me about the pineapples and that Austen’s England was actually a controversial place, not glossy and happy at all for most of its people. It has taken me some time to understand why the production took such a different approach, but now I think I do, and I also think that the idea was not entirely wrong.”

“ _Not entirely wrong_ as in: I was right?”

“Yes,” she conceded with a small apologetic smile. He let that sink in, shaking his head. When he searched for her gaze again, his eyes were full of kindness and affection. Lotta did not look away.

“Any more findings of your aunt on Sanditon?” he finally asked, breaking the spell.

“Oh yes.” She was grateful for the distraction. “She said the acting was superb. She’s never ever seen such a convincing cast with even the smallest role appearing like a character you would love to meet in real life. She actually fell in love with someone called Crowe – you never mentioned him, which makes me hope that he is not a scoundrel but the local reverend.”

A small smile played around his lips. “Ahem… well, he’s a… bit of a special guy and not quite your aunt’s age group. But from everything you’ve told me about her, he’ll return her feelings.”

“Do you want to know what she said about you?” she asked.

“Do I want to know?” There was clear doubt in his voice.

“I think so,” she replied. “She said that you’re a fine actor but that you’ll not become a great actor until you stop worrying about whether people will judge you by your performance or by your pretty face.”

“Your aunt said that?”

“She did.”

“Are you sure you haven’t been feeding her your own opinions?”

“She would never allow that. She’s very sharp-eyed,” Lotta said. “When my eldest brother showed her a picture of the man I had allegedly vanished with, she cried out: _Oh dear, it’s Mr Pamuk!_ and made them all watch Downton Abbey as a distraction. Though perhaps watching you die in Lady Mary’s bed was not the best distraction, given the circumstances. Anyway. Do you know what I really find ironic?”

“Well?”

“That a show that is about a reckless projector who takes a gamble is cancelled and left unfinished because the reckless producers took a gamble.”

“I’ve never seen it from that perspective.” He chuckled. “But actors are superstitious folks. Maybe it’s the curse of the Jane, and Sanditon is simply meant to be unfinished, whether as a novel or as a TV show. Because the greatest irony is that even if we had started filming again in January as it was originally scheduled, all work would have had to be suspended by the end of March. Who knows if we’d ever been able to take it up again after lockdown.”

“But that is also a matter of perspective,” Lotta said. “I believe it is finished.”

“Is it?”

“Definitely.” She nodded emphatically. “ After the incident with the remote control, my brothers… the twins spent days if not weeks searching through fanfiction forums and downloading stories for our aunt. Apparently, there are so many happy endings online that you can make a personal choice which one you like best. They are all different, but they have one thing in common: Sidney and Charlotte overcome all their obstacles and live happily ever after. And that’s what matters. In some alternate universe out there, they have found their perfect happiness. - And to think that you made so many people fall in love with them,” she added after a short pause. “That you sparked their creativity and inspired them to spend more time in Sanditon! – You must be so proud of yourself, Theo,” Lotta ended, looking directly at him. For a moment, he seemed to be dumbfounded by her words.

“That’s… I’ve never seen it like that,” he finally said.

“You can always count on me if you need a change of perspective,” she offered with a smile.

He remained silent for a good while, lost in his emotions, thoughts and memories. Lotta did not mind. She closed her eyes, enjoyed the crisp autumn sun warming her face and listened to the distant sounds of the city. It was such a simple and yet so precious thing to do: Sit in a sunny park, have a coffee with a friend, talk, open up to each other, - and if necessary: stay silent with each other without a feeling of unease. For the first time in months, she felt at peace.

“Lotta…” She opened her eyes, realising that she had not only been bathing in the sunshine but also in his gaze.

“Yes?”

“You said that you had no wish to know me, and after everything that’s happened, I fully understand and respect that, but… _I_ really want you to get to know me better.” He was studying her face with an intensity that made her heart pound. “I can’t make any promises,” he continued. “And I don’t know where this is leading. But for the time being, while you’re here for the trial… will you spend time with me? Will you let me buy you coffee and invite you to the cinema and take you out for dinner?”

She did not answer immediately. When she did, she understood that just as back in the yard in St Martin’s Lane, her life had reached another turning point. Yet she had to make sure. “You are not saying that because of a guilty conscience? Because you believe you owe me something?”

“I’ll never be able to repay you for what I owe you,” he replied. “All I’m saying now is that I want to spend more time with you. Real time in real life. Because… you’re challenging me. You make me see the world in a different light. You make me see _myself_ in a different light. That’s… painful, on some occasions, but inspiring most of the time.”

Now it was her part to remain silent, to think, to understand and to consider. When she smiled, she smiled first at herself, then at the sunshine and finally at him. “So, in the end, Heraclitus is proven right.”

He smiled back at her. “He is. I’m not the same man, and for that matter: you’re not the same woman either. Plus the river we are stepping into is completely unchartered territory.”

“You do remember what happened last time when I ran into unchartered territory?”

“You saved a man’s life.”

“I’m hoping for a less dramatic outcome this time.”

“I’ll do my very best, but I cannot promise.” Their eyes locked, their amused expressions fading into something more serious: mutual affection, anticipation, a little doubt and a lot of hope. Finally, Lotta nodded.

“Well then,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s where I’m going to leave these two, in that lovely little park, enjoying the sunshine and each other’s company. 
> 
> On a personal note: I'm neither 80 years old nor an English teacher, and I know how to handle a DVD player, but the great aunt's opinions on Sanditon (including the incident with the remote control and the crush on Mr Crowe) are largely my own. 
> 
> Thank you for following me on this journey. Stay calm, stay safe, and never let yourself be defeated by reality gone wrong.
> 
> T.


End file.
